𝐒𝐲𝐝𝐚𝐞𝐧

OBSYDAEN˚˖ִ໋❀

17ˎˊ˗ • SHE/HER ⋆ ̊. writer ⸝⸝ ╰─..★.──────────╯

M.LIST ༉‧₊˚.

༉‧₊˚. fic reqs? [open] ౨ৎ ༉‧₊˚. uploads: chaotic but full of love♡ ༉‧₊˚. currently obsessed with Jujutsu Kaisen ⸝⸝ ༉‧₊˚. fueled by chamomile tea and playlists ✧

✧ final notes ✧

Sorry I haven’t uploaded a new chapter yet. I’ve actually been in the hospital for the past three days due to some internal bleeding, so things have been a bit rough.. yeah rough might be an understatement.

For those wondering how I’m doing now : I’m feeling a lot better than I did three days ago. I try to keep a bit of humor about it (even if it’s not that funny) because it helps me deal with my chronic illness mentally.

Once I’m discharged, I’ll also need to catch up on school, so things might still move a little slowly at first. Thanks so much for your patience!!!!!!

P.S. If you ever notice something wrong with your body, don’t hesitate to reach out for medical help. I don’t mean to scare anyone, but ignoring it WILL make things worse.

no lie, it happened to me :”)

Take much care,

To Live Is A Curse [ 𝐒. 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑]

───── ✧⋅ღ⋅✧ ─────

By the time Yaga finally tells me to stop, my eyes feel dry and my neck is stiff from staring at the television for hours.

The last movie fades to black.

The room grows quiet.

For a moment, I don't move.

The plush still rests in my hands, my cursed energy flowing into it in a steady, controlled stream. The warmth has become so familiar that I almost forget I'm doing it.

Almost.

My breathing is slow. Even. No tension in my shoulders.

No sudden spikes.

Just steady output.

Yaga watches silently from near the wall, arms folded.

"...You're no longer forcing it," he says.

I blink, still looking at the blank television screen.

"...Yeah."

It's true.

Earlier, controlling cursed energy felt like holding something dangerous inside my chest, like gripping a wire that might snap if I relaxed too much.

Now...

It feels quieter.

Contained.

Like something resting under the surface instead of constantly threatening to break out.

I shift slightly on the couch, adjusting my grip on the plush.

"And it stopped trying to assassinate me," I add.

Yaga nods once.

"Your control is improving."

There's a short pause.

Then—

"That concludes step two."

I glance up at him.

"Step two?"

Right.

Which means— I let out a sigh.

Step three.

I exhale slowly and carefully set the plush on the table. My hands feel oddly empty the moment I let go, the faint warmth fading from my palms. I flex my fingers slightly. Then reach for my katana.

The strap slides over my shoulder, the familiar weight settling against my back. The sheath lightly taps my hip as I stand, and I adjust it automatically without thinking.

That alone feels like progress.

Yaga turns toward the door.

"Follow me."

I nod and walk after him.

The basement hallway is quieter now than before. The lights hum faintly overhead, casting long shadows along the concrete walls as we move deeper into the building.

We pass a few closed doors.

Turn down another corridor.

Then another.

Eventually, Yaga stops in front of a large metal-reinforced sliding door.

He opens it.

The room beyond is wide and open, stretching further than I expected beneath the school. The floor is padded, marked faintly with scuffs and signs of repeated use. Wooden weapon racks line one wall, neatly organized with practice swords, staffs, and other training tools.

A few training dummies stand near the far end of the room.

Some are worn.

Others look newer.

"This room is typically used during poor weather," Yaga explains as he steps inside. "When students cannot train outside."

I follow him in, glancing around.

"...So this is where everyone trains when it rains and stuff?"

"Yes."

He pauses briefly, then adds,

"And at this hour, no one will come here."

I blink slightly.

"...You brought me here so we wouldn't run into the other students?"

"Yes."

That makes me tilt my head slightly.

Why?

I glance around the empty training room again. The wide open space. The weapon racks. The silent training dummies.

"...Are we... avoiding them, why?" I ask carefully.

Yaga doesn't answer immediately.

Instead, he walks toward the weapon rack.

"For now," he says simply.

That... doesn't really answer my question.

Which makes it feel more like the answer is yes.

I watch him quietly for a moment, curiosity tugging at the back of my mind. It's not like I was planning on meeting anyone yet... but the fact that we're intentionally avoiding them makes it feel more deliberate.

Like he's easing me into this.

Like he doesn't want me thrown into everything at once.

Or—

Like he doesn't want them thrown into me yet.

That thought sits quietly in the back of my mind.

Yaga selects a wooden katana from the rack and turns toward me.

He holds it out.

"For now, you will use this."

I take it, feeling the smooth wood settle into my hands. It's lighter than my own katana, but the balance is still there. The grip feels slightly thicker, worn down from years of use, the surface polished from years of training.

"You will begin with fundamentals," Yaga says.

I nod slowly.

"Basic slashes. Movement. Footwork."

Makes sense.

I shift into a loose stance, testing the weight, lifting the wooden blade slightly and adjusting my grip.

"...Like this?"

Yaga steps closer, adjusting my hands slightly.

My fingers tighten instinctively as he repositions them.

He nudges my shoulder.

Moves my foot back a few inches.

"Lower your center of gravity."

I shift my stance, bending my knees slightly.

"There."

He steps back again.

"Swing."

I inhale slowly.

Then swing.

The wooden blade cuts through the air with a dull whoosh.

It feels awkward immediately.

My wrists are stiff.

My shoulders tense.

The movement feels forced, like my body isn't quite sure how to coordinate everything at once.

I reset.

Swing again.

Then again.

Each movement feels slightly less rigid than the last, my muscles gradually loosening as I adjust to the rhythm. The padded floor softens my steps as I shift my weight forward and back, the faint sound of my feet pressing into the surface echoing quietly in the empty room.

"Again," Yaga says.

I continue.

Forward step.

Slash.

Reset.

Side step.

Slash.

My breathing begins to sync with the movements.

Inhale.

Step.

Exhale.

Swing.

The motion starts to feel smoother. Less forced. But then—

My cursed energy flickers slightly. Just a small fluctuation. Still noticeable.

Yaga speaks immediately.

"Maintain your output."

Right.

"..oops"

I focus again. Not just on the sword. But on the energy.

The steady current inside my chest.

Moving while maintaining control is harder than sitting still. Every shift in my balance pulls my attention away. Every swing changes my breathing pattern. Every adjustment in posture forces me to split my focus.

I adjust.

Slowly. Carefully.

Step.

Slash.

Turn.

Reset.

Sweat begins to form along my temples. My arms grow heavier, the repetition slowly building strain in my shoulders and wrists. My breathing deepens, chest rising and falling more noticeably as the effort increases.

Still, I continue.

The room fills with the steady rhythm of movement. Wood cutting air. Footsteps against padded flooring. Controlled breathing.

Yaga watches silently, observing every small mistake.

Every improvement. Every adjustment. And gradually—

My movements begin to flow.

Still imperfect. Still slow. But better than before.

I try to keep my shoulders relaxed this time, letting the motion come from my biceps instead of just my forearms. The swing feels slightly smoother, the blade cutting through the air with less resistance.

"Don't rely only on your arms," Yaga says calmly.

I adjust immediately.

Right.

I shift my stance again, grounding my feet more firmly against the padded floor. My knees bend slightly, center of gravity lowering the way he showed me earlier.

Step forward.

Rotate.

Slash.

The difference is immediate.

The swing feels stronger. Less like I'm forcing the blade through the air and more like I'm guiding it.

"...Oh," I murmur.

Yaga nods faintly. "Again."

I repeat the motion.

My cursed energy hums quietly in my chest, steady but now harder to keep track of as my focus splits between movement and balance. I inhale. The rhythm slowly builds.

My feet slide softly across the padded flooring, each step becoming slightly more deliberate. My grip adjusts naturally as I begin to feel the balance of the wooden katana more clearly.

But then—

My foot placement is slightly off so my balance shifts. My cursed energy wavers again. Just for a moment.

Yaga notices instantly.

"Stability."

"Uh right—"

I tighten my focus again, drawing my attention inward for a moment. The steady current inside my chest flickers, then settles again.

I reset my stance.

Try again.

Step.

Slash.

Turn.

Step back.

Slash.

More sweat trickles down the side of my neck. My forearms burn slightly from the repeated swings, the unfamiliar motion slowly wearing on muscles I didn't even realize I was using. Still, I keep going.

Because stopping now would feel like losing momentum.

And because—

Even though it's tiring—

This actually feels... good.

There's something satisfying about the repetition. About slowly improving, even if it's only by small amounts.

The wooden blade moves again. And again. The quiet training room echoes faintly with each swing.

Minutes pass.

Maybe longer.

Time starts to blur slightly as I focus on the rhythm.

Then—

"Stop."

I freeze mid-motion, lowering the wooden katana slightly as I exhale.

My arms feel heavier now and my breathing is deeper.

Yaga steps forward slowly, his eyes studying my posture.

"You are compensating," he says.

"...Compensating?"

"You rely too much on your right side."

Oh.

I glance down at my stance.

Yeah.

My right foot is more forward. My grip slightly tighter on that side.

"...So I'm unbalanced."

"Yes."

He gestures slightly.

"Switch your lead foot."

I blink.

"...huh?."

I reposition my stance, placing my left foot forward instead. The shift feels unnatural almost instantly, like trying to write with my non-dominant hand.

That feels... immediately more awkward.

"Begin again."

I sigh quietly.

"Of course."

I inhale.

Step.

Slash.

The swing is noticeably worse.

My coordination stumbles slightly. My wrists tense again. The movement loses its earlier smoothness.

"...This feels so wrong," I mutter.

"That is to be expected."

I try again.

"...Yeah, I hate this side," I mutter under my breath.

Yaga ignores the comment.

The challenge forces me to think more carefully about every movement again. My cursed energy flickers once more as my focus splits further.

I correct it quickly.

───── ✧⋅ღ⋅✧ ─────

Yaga studies me for a moment.

"Your control has improved in this last hour."

I glance at him.

"...That's another observation?"

"Yes."

"...You're giving a lot of those today."

He ignores that.

"You will repeat this."

My shoulders slump slightly.

"...Of course I will."

Yaga turns slightly, walking toward the wall where one of the training dummies stands.

"Again."

I reposition my stance. Left foot forward.

Still awkward. Still uncomfortable. But I raise the wooden katana again.

The rhythm returns, slower this time. My muscles are already tired, which makes maintaining cursed energy even harder. My breathing deepens further, chest rising and falling more heavily.

Sweat now clings faintly to the back of my neck.

Time stretches again.

The repetition continues.

Step.

Slash.

Reset.

Step.

Slash.

Eventually, my shoulders start burning. My wrists ache. My legs grow heavier.

Still, I continue. Because Yaga hasn't told me to stop.

And because stopping on my own feels like failure.

Time passes.

I'm not sure how long. Thirty minutes. An hour. Maybe more. The rhythm never really stops. Only short pauses. Then more repetition.

My shirt clings faintly to my back now, damp with sweat. My breathing is steady but deeper than before, my movements slower but more controlled than when I started.

The awkwardness of the left stance hasn't fully disappeared—

But it's less obvious now. My body is adapting. Slowly. Gradually.

"Enough."

Yaga's voice cuts through the quiet again.

I lower the wooden katana immediately, arms trembling slightly as the tension finally releases.

I exhale.

"...That took...way longer than I expected."

Yaga walks closer, studying my stance one more time.

"You maintained cursed energy throughout."

I blink slightly.

Oh.

Right.

I did.

Even while moving. Even while exhausted. Even while adjusting.

The steady current inside my chest is still there.

"...I didn't even notice," I admit quietly.

"That is progress."

I straighten slightly, rolling my shoulders back. My muscles protest immediately.

"...So... what's next?"

Because there's always a next step when training with Yaga sensei.

Yaga looks at me for a moment.

Then his gaze shifts to the katana resting against the wall.

And something in his expression changes — just slightly.

"Now," he says calmly,

"You will use your real weapon."

I follow his gaze.

My katana rests where I placed it earlier, leaning carefully against the padded wall. The sheath catches the dim overhead lighting, the familiar shape suddenly feeling heavier just from looking at it.

"...Already?" I ask quietly.

"Yes."

There's no hesitation in his voice.

No room for argument either.

I walk toward it, my legs slightly stiff from the prolonged stance training. My muscles protest with each step, reminding me just how goddamn long I've been repeating the same movements.

I reach down and pick it up.

The cursed energy inside the blade responds faintly — like something waking up. Just... aware.

I pause for a moment.

"...It feels different after training," I murmur.

Yaga nods once.

"You are more stable with your cursed energy."

That probably explains it.

Earlier, the cursed energy inside the katana felt like something separate from me — something I had to manage carefully so it wouldn't spiral out of control.

Now...

It feels easier to hold. Easier to carry. Like the distance between me and the blade has shortened slightly.

I draw it slowly.

The faint sound of metal sliding from the sheath echoes softly through the quiet training room.

The blade catches the light.

My grip tightens slightly.

"Same movements," Yaga says.

I nod.

Right.

Basics.

Just like before.

I shift into my stance again, this time with my real katana in my hands. The weight is noticeably different from the wooden one. Slightly heavier. More precise. Less forgiving.

Step.

Slash.

The blade cuts sharply through the air.

The difference is immediate. I huff out a breath. The motion feels sharper. Cleaner. Even the air displacement sounds different.

My cursed energy hums faintly in response, the steady current inside my chest flowing more naturally into my arms.

The blade feels... alive in my hands. Not literally. But responsive. Connected.

I try again.

Step.

Rotate.

Slash.

Better.

My footwork remains cautious, still adapting to the left-forward stance, but the movements are more controlled now.

Yaga watches quietly.

"Do not rush, L/N."

I slow slightly, focusing again on balance first. The blade is sharper. Mistakes would matter more now — even in training.

My breathing remains steady, though my arms still ache from earlier. The weight of the real katana makes the strain more noticeable, forcing me to adjust my movements carefully.

And gradually, something begins to change again. The awkwardness fades further. My stance stabilizes. My grip relaxes. The blade moves smoother. More naturally.

Yaga finally speaks again.

"Good, L/N."

I pause slightly.

"...That one sounded like an actual compliment."

Silence.

Which... probably means it was.

I allow myself a small, tired smile.

"...Sorry to burst your bubble," I mutter, slightly breathless, "but I need a damn break."

The silence stretches for a second.

I lower the katana fully, letting the tip hover just above the padded floor.

"This is all new to me, y'know..." I continue, rolling one shoulder carefully as it protests. "I didn't exactly grow up doing sword training for hours."

My wrists ache when I loosen my grip slightly.

"And my arms are starting to feel like they're gonna detach themselves." I huff out a breath.

Yaga studies me quietly. Not disappointed. Not annoyed. Just observing.

"...You recognized your limit before your control collapsed," he says calmly.

I blink.

Oh.

"...That's... good?"

"Yes."

I let out a quiet breath, relief settling slightly in my chest. I wasn't sure if stopping would count as failing.

Apparently not.

I carefully lower the katana, then walk toward the wall and rest it gently against the padding. My fingers linger on the grip for a second before I finally let go.

The absence of the weight feels strange.

Lighter.

But also emptier.

I flex my fingers slowly, feeling the faint tremor in my hands now that I'm no longer forcing them steady.

"...Okay, yeah," I mutter, shaking my hands slightly. "Definitely need that break."

My legs feel heavy as I step back, lowering myself carefully to sit on the padded floor. The moment I do, the tension leaves my muscles all at once.

I lean back slightly on my hands, staring up at the ceiling lights.

My breathing slowly evens out again.

The steady flow of cursed energy remains — faint, controlled, quieter than before.

"...This is harder than it looks, Yaga sensei." I admit.

"Yes."

Of course.

I glance sideways at him. Is he always this dry with responses?

"...Do all first-years go through this?"

"Yes."

That... makes me feel slightly better.

Slightly.

I tilt my head back again, closing my eyes for a brief moment.

My shoulders still ache. My wrists still sting. But underneath the exhaustion— There's something else. A small sense of progress.

I open my eyes again.

"...I'm not completely terrible though, right?"

Yaga pauses.

Then—

"You learn quickly."

I blink slightly.

A small smile pulls at the corner of my mouth despite the exhaustion.

"...I'll take that."

The quiet training room settles again, the hum of the overhead lights filling the space as I sit there, catching my breath — preparing for whatever step comes next.

To Live Is A Curse [ 𝐒. 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑]

───── ✧⋅ღ⋅✧ ─────

“It's cute."

The words leave my mouth before my brain has the chance to filter them.

Yaga doesn't react immediately. He simply watches me from where he stands behind the couch, arms folded, his broad silhouette partially illuminated by the bluish glow of the television screen.

Its button eyes stare up at me.

Stitched smile.

Round little arms.

If someone handed this to me outside of this building, I'd assume it came from a gift shop.

“That,” Yaga says calmly, “is a cursed corpse.”

I glance up at him, then back down at the plush sitting in my hands.

The thing is small. Soft. Almost round in shape, with uneven patchwork stitching and two button eyes that stare up at me with a strangely cheerful expression.

It looks like something you’d win at a carnival.

Or find sitting on a kid’s bed.

“It is one of my creations,” Yaga continues matter-of-factly.

My eyes flick back up to him.

“You made it?”

“Yes.”

His tone is so casual it almost sounds like he’s saying ‘I bake bread on weekends.’

I turn the little thing over carefully in my hands, my fingers tracing the stitched seams along its side.

The cursed energy inside it is stable. Quiet. Like a small engine running somewhere beneath the surface.

“So… it’s alive?” I ask.

“No.” The answer comes immediately.

Then Yaga adds, after a brief pause,

"It functions."

I stare at it again.

"...Right."

The television continues playing in the background.

On screen, a grainy horror film flickers—an old one. The kind where the tension builds slowly before anything actually happens.

I glance between the movie and the plush in my hands.

Then back at Yaga.

"...Okay," I say slowly. "You're going to have to walk me through the logic here."

He nods once.

"The purpose of this exercise is simple," he explains. "You will watch the movies."

I stare.

"...The movies."

"Yes."

"Like... the all of them?"

"Yes."

I blink again.

My brain is still catching up.

"So I'm just... watching a horror movies with a cursed stuffed animal."

"Indeed."

I lean back slightly into the couch.

"Right."

The room is quiet except for the soft hum of the television.

My katana rests beside the couch, leaning against the armrest where I placed it earlier. The strap hangs loose, the sheath angled toward the floor.

The absence of its weight on my back feels strange now.

Like I'm missing something.

Yaga gestures lightly toward the plush in my hands.

"You will hold that."

"Okay."

"You will maintain a constant flow of cursed energy into it."

I pause.

"...Wait."

I look down at the little stitched face again.

"You want me to... feed it cursed energy?"

"Yes."

"And if I stop?"

His eyes shift briefly toward the screen.

"You will be struck."

I blink.

"...Struck?"

"As a punishment."

I slowly lower my gaze back to the plush.

The plush does not look like something capable of violence.

Which means it absolutely is.

"...Great," I mutter.

Yaga continues as if this is the most normal conversation in the world.

"If your cursed energy fluctuates, if it spikes, drops, or becomes unstable..."

“it will correct you.”

I look down slowly at the tiny stitched creature in my lap.

“…Correct me.”

Yaga nods once.

I narrow my eyes at the plush.

“…You look too cute to be violent.”

The button eyes stare back.

Completely innocent.

"So basically..."I sigh

I settle deeper into the couch, clutching the plush in both hands.

"If I lose control, the stuffed animal punches me."

"Yes."

"Wow, fantastic."

The television volume rises slightly as the movie reaches its first tense scene.

A dark hallway.

Slow footsteps.

The classic horror build-up.

Yaga watches me for a moment longer.

"Focus on maintaining a steady output," he says.

"Not too strong. Not too weak."

I nod slowly.

"Stable."

"Yes."

I close my eyes for a moment.

Alright.

Cursed energy.

I've used it before.

But not like this.

Before, it was always...

Explosive.

Like opening a valve and letting something dangerous rush out.

Now I have to...

Control it.

Direct it.

Slow it down.

I inhale.

Then exhale.

And try to feel it.

At first, there's nothing.

Just the lingering exhaustion from running fifteen laps.

My legs ache.

My shoulders feel tight.

My breathing is still a little uneven.

But then—

There it is.

A faint warmth somewhere deep in my chest.

Not physical.

Something else.

Something heavier.

Darker.

I guide it slowly outward.

Down my arms.

Into my hands.

The plush twitches.

I nearly drop it.

"Relax," Yaga says calmly behind me.

"Too much."

I swallow.

"Right."

Okay.

Gentler.

I try again.

Slow.

Careful.

The cursed energy flows again—but this time it's softer. Like pouring water instead of opening a floodgate.

The plush warms in my hands.

The faint humming sensation increases slightly.

But it doesn't move.

Good.

On the television screen, the horror movie jumps to a sudden loud noise.

My shoulders twitch instinctively—

WHACK.

The plush smacks me in the forehead.

“OW!”

I jerk backward, clutching my face.

“WHAT THE—”

Yaga doesn’t even blink.

“You lost focus.”

I glare down at the plush. It sits quietly in my lap.

Button eyes. Stitched smile. Innocent.

“You hit me!”

“I didn’t.”

“That thing hit me.”

“Yes.”

I squint at it.

“…You’re enjoying this, aren’t you.”

Yaga says nothing.

Which is basically a yes.

I sigh and reposition myself on the couch, sitting up straighter this time.

“Alright,” I mutter.

“Round two.”

I lift the plush again.

Focus. Breathing. Energy. Slow. Controlled.

The cursed energy begins flowing again.

The plush hums faintly in response.

The television continues playing.

Another tense scene.

Footsteps in a dark hallway.

Music building.

I keep my breathing steady.

Don’t react. Don’t spike. Don’t lose focus—

The movie hits another sudden scare.

My cursed energy spikes instinctively—

WHACK.

“OW—!”

The plush smacks my nose this time.

I slump backward dramatically into the couch.

“You know,” I groan, rubbing my face, “most teachers use homework.”

Yaga’s voice remains perfectly calm. “This is homework.”

I glare at the ceiling.

“…I hate this school.”

The plush sits quietly in my hands.

Waiting.

Patient.

And I suddenly realize something important.

If this is step two—

Then step three is probably going to be much worse.

I sigh.

Lift the plush again.

And start focusing.

Again.

And again.

And again.

───── ✧⋅ღ⋅✧ ─────

Several hours later.

The basement room looks exactly the same as it did when we started.

Dim lighting.

The soft blue glow of the television.

The low table cluttered with CD cases.

The couch.

But the atmosphere feels… different now.

The fourth movie is playing.

At some point the stack of CDs on the table slowly shrank without me really noticing. The first horror film bled into the second, then the third, and now the fourth flickers across the screen in grainy black shadows and dramatic music.

I barely notice anymore.

My posture on the couch has shifted from tense concentration to something… oddly comfortable.

One leg is tucked slightly under the other. My back leans lightly against the cushions. Both of my hands rest in my lap.

The plush sits there between them.

Still.

Quiet.

Warm.

My cursed energy flows steadily through my palms, down into the small stitched body.

Not too much. Not too little. Just enough.

It’s almost… rhythmic now.

Breathing in. Energy flows. Breathing out. Energy steadies.

The little cursed corpse hums faintly under the fabric, accepting the energy without reacting.

Which is good.

Very good.

Because the last three hours have taught me something important.

Getting punched by a plush hurts way more than it should.

On the screen, the main character slowly creeps down a dark staircase, flashlight trembling in their hand.

The movie music builds.

I lean forward slightly, eyes narrowed.

“Don’t go down there,” I mutter quietly.

The character opens the basement door anyway.

“Idiot.”

Behind me, the door to the training room slides open with a soft wooden click.

I barely register it.

Footsteps enter.

Calm. Heavy. Familiar.

Yaga stops a few feet behind the couch. For a moment, he simply watches.

The television light flickers across the room. Across the stack of empty CD cases. Across the katana resting beside the couch. Across me.

And the cursed corpse resting quietly in my hands.

My cursed energy output remains steady.

Controlled.

Consistent.

The plush doesn’t move.

On screen, the movie hits a sudden loud jump scare—

The music spikes. The actor screams. Something crashes. My eyes widen slightly—

But my cursed energy doesn’t spike.

The plush stays still.

“…Ha.” Yaga finally speaks.

“You’ve stabilized it.”

I jump slightly.

“OH—!”

My head whips around toward him.

“Jeez— how long have you been standing there?!”

Yaga’s arms are folded calmly across his chest.

“Long enough.”

I narrow my eyes at him.

“That’s not an answer.”

He glances down at the plush.

“Your cursed energy output is consistent.”

My gaze drops to my hands.

The faint warmth still flows through them into the little stitched body.

“…Oh.”

Right.

I did it.

Somewhere between the third and fourth movie… something clicked.

The flow stopped feeling forced.

Stopped feeling like I was pushing energy out.

Instead it became something else.

A steady current.

Like holding water in cupped hands without spilling it.

I lean back into the couch again, still holding the plush.

“…It stopped punching me.”

“Yes.”

“Big improvement.”

Yaga steps slightly closer to the couch, glancing briefly at the television screen.

A ghostly figure creeps slowly down the hallway.

The character on screen is whispering something unintelligible.

Yaga watches it for exactly two seconds.

“…This movie is inefficient.”

I stare at him.

“You literally told me to watch them.”

“For emotional stimulation.”

“Well it’s working,” I say, gesturing at the screen. “That guy is about to die.”

Yaga ignores that.

His gaze returns to my hands.

“To maintain cursed energy control during emotional spikes is essential for a sorcerer.”

I glance down at the plush again.

“…So the jump scares were part of the test.”

“Yes.”

“That’s evil.”

“It’s effective.”

To Live Is A Curse [ 𝐒. 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑]

───── ✧⋅ღ⋅✧ ─────

The sheath rests diagonally across my back, secured by a dark strap that runs over my shoulder and across my chest. The weight settles between my shoulder blades, noticeable but balanced in a way that makes it feel less like I'm carrying something and more like it's simply... there.

Still attached to me.

Still real.

When I walk, the end of the sheath shifts slightly with each step, the faint movement brushing lightly against the fabric of my uniform jacket.

A soft tap... tap... against my back when I adjust my posture.

I reach up instinctively, fingers brushing the wrapped handle over my shoulder.

It's strange how quickly my brain is trying to normalize the fact that I am currently walking around a school campus with a cursed sword strapped to my back.

'Yeah. Totally normal Monday activity.'

I adjust the strap slightly as we walk, making sure it sits more comfortably across my shoulder.

Earlier, the campus had been full of noise.

Students talking.

Wood striking wood.

The occasional burst of laughter.

Now—

It's quiet.

The training field stretches wide and empty under the late morning sun, the wooden posts standing untouched where they'd been earlier and the benches abandoned except for a forgotten soda can rolling slowly in the grass when the wind nudges it.

I slow slightly, scanning the area out of habit.

"Uhm...Where did everyone go?"

Yaga stops near the edge of the field.

"It is 7:30," he says simply. "Classes have begun."

Right.

Of course they have.

This is technically still a school.

I glance toward the main buildings in the distance, suddenly aware that somewhere inside those walls people are probably sitting at desks learning theory and strategy while I'm standing here with a katana strapped to my back like I'm about to attack a school.

"So... I'm skipping class already?" I ask.

"No."

That answer makes me pause.

I glance at him, trying to read his expression, but as usual his face gives away absolutely nothing beyond the calm patience of someone who has clearly had this conversation before.

"Your schedule will differ slightly from the others for the time being," he continues, turning his attention back toward the wide training field stretching out in front of us. "You have already completed the theoretical education most first-year students are still learning."

Right.

Because apparently graduating early into a world of curses and swords wasn't chaotic enough already.

"So I won't be in classes with them?" I ask.

"For some subjects you will," Yaga replies. "For others, your time will be better spent refining practical skills."

My eyes drift across the empty field again.

Earlier this place had been filled with people—students stretching, sparring, laughing, arguing, making the kind of noise that comes with groups of teenagers forced into the same environment.

Now it's completely quiet.

The benches are empty.

The practice posts stand alone.

Even the breeze feels louder without voices filling the space.

I shift the strap of the katana slightly on my shoulder, feeling the weight settle more comfortably across my back.

"So what am I doing right now?" I ask.

Yaga gestures calmly toward the track circling the training grounds.

"You will run laps."

I stare at the field.

"...Laps."

"Yes."

There's a brief pause before he adds,

"Fifteen."

Of course.

Fifteen.

Why would it be anything reasonable.

I take a slow breath, looking out across the grass again and mentally measuring the distance.

"While you're...?" I start.

"Teaching," he finishes.

Ah.

Right.

He does still have an entire class waiting for him somewhere inside the building.

"I will return when my lesson is finished," he continues. "When I do, we will begin your actual training."

That makes my attention snap back to him.

"Actual training?"

He nods once.

"This field is primarily for student exercises. Your technique requires a different environment."

That sounds... mildly ominous.

"Different how?" I ask.

"You will see."

Of course I will.

Very informative.

He steps slightly closer to the field, glancing once at the katana resting across my back.

"Running will serve two purposes," he says. "First, it will allow your body to adjust to the weapon on your back."

I instinctively reach back, touching the wrapped handle over my shoulder again.

"Second," he continues, "it will give me time to complete my class before we continue."

So basically I'm being given a fitness test while he goes to teach theory.

Fantastic.

"And after that?" I ask.

"After that," Yaga says calmly, "we will go somewhere more suitable for training."

The way he says it makes it sound like whatever place he's talking about is not the nice open grassy field currently in front of me.

Good to know.

I nod slowly, trying not to think too hard about that yet.

"Alright."

Yaga turns slightly toward the path leading back to the main buildings.

"I will return shortly."

Then he pauses.

"You should begin."

I look out across the massive field again.

The track suddenly seems... longer than it did five seconds ago. My mind drifts briefly back to earlier. The groups of students scattered around the grounds. The loud white-haired guy laughing with his friend. The girl with the purple hair on the bench. The two girls sparring like they were already professionals. They're all in class right now.

Which means I'm technically here...

Alone.

Going to run laps.

At a school where I don't know anyone yet.

I glance toward the buildings in the distance.

'So when exactly am I supposed to meet everyone...?'

Before I can ask the question out loud, Yaga speaks again.

"Focus on the task in front of you!"

Right.

Running.

I exhale quietly.

"I got it!" I yell back to him from the long distance.

Yaga nods once and begins walking back toward the main building, leaving me standing alone at the edge of the training grounds.

For a moment I just stand there, staring at the track circling the field while the wind moves softly through the trees.

Fifteen laps.

With a sword strapped to my back.

On my first day.

I roll my shoulders, adjusting the strap again before stepping onto the grass.

"Okay," I mutter under my breath.

"Let's see how bad this is going to be."

And then I start running.

he first few steps feel awkward.

Not painful. Not exhausting yet. Just... off.

My body is trying to understand the new balance, the extra weight resting diagonally across my back, the strap pulling lightly over my shoulder every time my stride lengthens.

The sheath shifts against the fabric of my uniform jacket.

Not much.

Just enough to remind me it's there.

Instinctively, my hand slides up to grip the strap near my collarbone, fingers hooking into it so the katana doesn't bounce with every step.

Much better.

The field stretches wide around me as I fall into a steady pace, my shoes pressing softly into the grass while the breeze brushes past my face.

For a moment, the quiet is almost peaceful.

No voices.

No wooden weapons clashing.

No instructors yelling corrections across the field.

Just the soft rhythm of my breathing and the faint rustle of trees surrounding the training grounds. I pass the wooden posts where students had been sparring earlier. The dents in the reinforced wood are still visible. Deep grooves from repeated strikes. Controlled power.

I wonder briefly which of them made those.

The silver-blue ponytail girl?

The one with the pigtails?

They had looked like they knew exactly what they were doing.

My pace stays steady as I move past the benches. Earlier the girl with the purple hair had been sitting there like she owned the entire campus, casually drinking from a can while watching everything around her. Now the bench is empty. Only a small indentation in the grass where someone had been standing beside it remains.

The wind pushes a loose strand of hair out of my face as I round the corner of the field.

One lap.

Already.

That... wasn't so bad.

'Okay. Maybe fifteen isn't going to kill me.'

───── ✧⋅ღ⋅✧ ─────

"...Holy fu—"

My voice comes out somewhere between a wheeze and a dying gasp as I drag myself around the final bend of the field, one hand gripping the katana strap across my chest like it's the only thing keeping me upright.

My hair is sticking to the side of my face.

And the once-light weight of the katana now feels like someone quietly replaced it with a bag of bricks somewhere around lap eleven.

My breathing comes out in uneven bursts.

"Fif...teen..." I gasp quietly.

The grass stretches ahead of me in a blur as I stumble across the last stretch of the track, legs wobbling in protest with every step.

A few more meters.

Almost there.

Almost—

My foot finally crosses the invisible finish line in my head and I slow to a stop before immediately collapsing forward, hands braced on my knees—before giving up entirely and dropping onto the grass.

Air rushes in and out of my lungs like my body just discovered breathing for the first time.

"Oh my—"

inhale

"—god."

inhale

"Why—"

inhale

"—fifteen."

I stay there for a moment, staring at the grass while my heart attempts to escape through my ribcage.

Eventually I roll slightly onto my back, still gripping the strap across my chest as the katana rests heavily against the ground beneath me.The empty training field stretches out around me again. Peaceful. Quiet. Completely unconcerned with my near-death cardio experience.

I wipe the back of my hand across my forehead.

The breeze brushes over my face, gentle and indifferent, while I lie there trying to convince my lungs to stop their panicked protest.

"Hmm."

I turn my head just in time to see Yaga stepping out onto the field, his hands folded behind his back like he always does, the sun casting a long shadow across the grass.

"Alright," he says after a moment, crouching slightly so he's level with me. His expression is... carefully neutral, but there's the faintest twitch in the corner of his mouth that I can't quite read.

"You're not sporty at all," he blurts suddenly.

I freeze.

"...'sExcuse me?"

Yaga tilts his head, almost like he's studying me as if I were a complicated equation. "I mean it," he continues calmly, but there's a weird kind of finality in his voice, like this is an observation set in stone. "Just like your mother when she first started."

My eyes snap wide.

"...My mom?"

The words hit me like a stray sword strike to the chest. The same thought darts into my head that never really leaves: what kind of relationship did he even have with her? Friends? Best friends? Rivals? Allies in some hidden world I never got to see?

And why would Mom leave her friends, anyway, if she was anything like... this?

Yaga doesn't answer immediately. He simply watches me, calm and collected, as if reading every rapid thought racing through my head.

I stare at the sky above, the clouds lazily drifting, trying to get my pulse under control while questions hammer against my skull like heavy fists.

"...Were you... close?" I manage finally, my voice hoarse and shaky from running and panic and everything else.

He blinks, the smallest flicker of something unreadable passing across his face. "We knew each other," he says simply. "Long before you were born."

That... is less information than I wanted.

"'Knew each other'? Like... Friends? Allies? Secret sword-fighting partners in some crazy backstory I don't know about?" I mutter, barely suppressing the incredulous laugh threatening to escape.

He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he leans back slightly, resting a hand on the grass near him. "She had... a different path. One she chose, and one you'll learn to respect in time."

Respect in time. Right. Thanks, cryptic sensei. Very helpful.

I lie there for a long moment, staring at the katana strap against my chest, trying to process everything. My legs ache, my shoulders feel like they're on fire, and my brain is running laps of its own, but I can't stop thinking about the connection between him and Mom.

Did they train together? Did they laugh? Did they... argue?

Was that why she left?

I shift slightly and for a second the grass beneath me feels comforting in a way it never has before.

Yaga finally speaks again, breaking the tense silence. "Get up," he says. His tone is calm, almost mild, but there's an undeniable edge to it. "Your training doesn't stop because of curiosity."

I groan and roll onto my side, then sit up slowly, still gripping the strap across my chest. "Right. Training. Of course. Not snooping into your mysterious history with my mom."

He tilts his head slightly, as if amused—or maybe just tolerant of my sarcasm. "You'll get your answers in due time, L/N." he says. "For now... let's see if you can stand without your body threatening to betray you."

I glance down at my legs, which feel like they belong to someone else entirely. The katana on my back suddenly feels like a much heavier burden than it did 20 minutes ago.

But I straighten anyway, teeth gritted, and take a shaky breath.

"Fine," I mutter, "but if you drop another casual 'like your mother' bomb in the middle of training, I'm going to throw this thing at you." I point at the random brick beside us on the grass.

He doesn't respond immediately, just gives a slow, deliberate nod. The faint twitch of a smile finally touches his lips, just enough for me to catch it.

I wonder, not for the first time, how he manages to stay calm when he's dealing with... me.

I take a deep breath, the kind that's supposed to make me feel human again, but all it really does is remind me how heavy my lungs feel and how little sense any of this makes.

"Wait a second," I mutter, my voice half-laughing, half-groaning, "you said... you said we'd train somewhere else. Not here."

Yaga tilts his head, expression unchanged, eyes fixed on me like he's waiting for me to finish my thought.

"Yeah, respect in time. Right," I continue, the sarcasm slipping out despite my fatigue. "Very helpful, cryptic sensei. I just ran fifteen laps with a cursed katana strapped to my back, nearly died in the process, and now you're telling me I'm not going to train in this... lovely open field?"

He crosses his arms slowly. "Correct."

I narrow my eyes, squinting up at him. "So... you're going to take me somewhere else? Some underground dungeon or abandoned shrine? That's... that's the training?"

"No." His voice is calm—too calm—but it carries weight, the kind that makes me pause mid-thought and wonder if I really want to know what's coming next. "Running laps was preparation. Conditioning. Familiarizing your body with the weapon. This is only step one, little one."

I glance down at the katana resting against my back. Step one. As if I could have handled step ten without collapsing into the grass first. "Step one, huh?" I mutter under my breath. My fingers tighten around the strap, feeling the cool wrapping of the handle. "So... the actual training is somewhere else. Somewhere better. More... suitable for me? You didn't say that before."

"You didn't ask." Yaga's response is flat, almost lazy, but there's an edge to it, like the calm surface of a lake hiding a waterfall underneath.

I sit up a little straighter, swinging my legs over so my sneakers press against the dirt. "I did ask. Sort of. And your answers were... cryptic at best."

Yaga tilts his head again, just slightly, and I swear that tiny movement sets my brain into overdrive. He knows exactly what he's doing—he's letting me stew, letting the curiosity gnaw at me, letting me question everything he just said.

"You're going to take me there now?" I ask, finally, voice quiet.

"Yes, enough lounging," he says, voice calm but firm. "Let's go."

The grass scratches at my palms as I push myself to my feet. I take a shaky step forward, I follow him because refusing feels... impossible.

We walk in silence across the empty training field, the afternoon sun warming my neck through the collar of my uniform. The main building looms ahead, ordinary in appearance, but I've learned better than to trust appearances here.

Yaga leads me to the far side, a set of stairs tucked behind a maintenance door. I follow, muscles protesting, and soon the stairs creak beneath our weight as we descend into the basement.

The air is cooler here, dry, and faintly musty, the kind of smell that makes you feel both alert and... secretive. At the bottom of the stairs, the space opens into a low-ceilinged room that's surprisingly... domestic.

A television sits on a low table against the far wall, a couch positioned squarely in front of it. The glow from the screen illuminates the room in a soft, bluish light. The table is cluttered with a few small objects—scattered papers, a half-empty mug, and a neat stack of CDs in their cases.

"Sit," Yaga instructs, nodding toward the couch.

I shift carefully on the couch, feeling the katana weighing on my back one last time. With a slow exhale, I slide the strap off my shoulder and set the sword beside the couch, sheath down, handle angled just so. The familiar weight leaves me suddenly, and the room feels... lighter, quieter, less like a battlefield and more like a classroom designed for focus.

He taps a few buttons on the television remote. The screen flickers to life with a recording of... a horror movie?

"Control of cursed energy," Yaga says simply, standing behind the couch.

I blink, eyes tracking the figure on the screen. Every motion looks effortless, but I can feel the tension in my own body just watching it. "I... need to do that?" I ask.

"Exactly," he says. "You'll need to learn how to focus, direct, and suppress energy within your own body before your technique becomes anything more than a swinging sword. This is step two."

I slump back against the couch, staring at the glowing screen. My chest heaves, sweat dripping from my temples.

"And... how do I start?" I ask, voice small.

Yaga tilts his head, expression calm as always. "Mimic. Focus. Feel the energy in your body as you breathe. Start with control, not power. If you rush, you fail. If you panic, you fail. If you learn patience..." He lets the pause stretch, letting the words hang. "You succeed."

I nod, taking a shaky breath, trying to make sense of the calm instructions while my lungs still feel like they're screaming from the laps outside.

Then Yaga reaches to the side and picks up something small from the table. It looks... soft. Almost like a plush toy, one of those cute stuffed animals kids would hug, except the shape is vaguely humanoid, stitched with a patchwork of pale and dark fabrics. Its round eyes are buttons, stitched carefully, giving it an oddly endearing expression.

"This," he says, placing it gently in my hands, "is a small cursed corpse. Don't be deceived by appearances—it's the simplest form you can experiment on without destroying your own body."

I lift it carefully, almost cradling it, feeling a strange, faint pulse under the fabric. It's light, soft, almost comforting... but I know enough from Yaga's tone to understand that it isn't harmless.

"It's cute."

Age: 16 → 17 Gender: Female Pronouns: She / Her Affiliation: Tokyo Metropolitan Curse Technical College Grade: First Grade Sorcerer (Special Grade Potential – unacknowledged yet)

Branded by the jujutsu world as:

“The Cursed Soul”

A miracle weapon.

✦ Cursed Technique

𝑷𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝑷𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒐𝒎 (紅幻影, Kōgen’ei)

紅 → deep red-pink

幻影 → phantom image / mirage

Y/N’s cursed technique converts her life force into highly refined cursed energy, forming a self-sustaining inner “Fire.”

Her cursed energy manifests as pink, flame-like patterns along her limbs, burning with selective intent: it annihilates curses and malicious cursed energy.

✦ Core Abilities

◈ Accelerated Regeneration

Through continuous Reverse Cursed Energy circulation, wounds close almost instantly while the fire is active. Stamina and vitality are forcibly replenished—often beyond what her body should be able to endure.

The fire keeps her alive even when she shouldn’t be.

◈ Pink Ignition

Her cursed energy behaves like living fire:

Burns curses on contact

Disrupts and destabilizes techniques

Overwhelms enemy cursed energy through pressure rather than destruction

The flames leave no physical burns on humans if willed by the user, only heat.

✦ Hearth Overflow (危険状態)

The hearth has a limit.

When Y/N draws excessive cursed energy—especially under emotional distress—her cursed energy destabilizes, entering Hearth Overflow.

Physical & Visual Changes:

Pupils sharpen

Pink flames intensify and distort

Black cursed markings solidify at fingertips and palms, breaking into jagged, vein-like streaks across her arms

Effects:

Power increases drastically

Regeneration becomes absolute

Instinct overtakes restraint

Speech and memory begin to degrade

Threat assessment becomes indiscriminate

Unlike a curse, she does not permanently lose herself— but prolonged exposure risks soul erosion.

✦ Binding Limitation (Subconscious)

To prevent complete collapse, Y/N subconsciously restrains her output.

She:

Avoids unnecessary violence

Fights calmly and efficiently

Refuses to rely on raw power unless absolutely necessary

Only when protecting others or pushed to the brink does she allow the hearth to burn freely. (ATTY THIS LINE GOES HARD ;0 )

Losing control means risking her humanity— and she refuses to become something that cannot come back.

✦ Reputation

Among sorcerers, Y/N is spoken of carefully.

Some see her as a miracle. Others see her as a case study waiting to go wrong.

Gojo Satoru has noted her potential— but also the danger of what she might become if she ever stops holding back.

✦ Appearance & Presence

Height: Shorter than most

Build: Soft, feminine

Typical Attire:

Casual feminine clothes

Cozy pajamas

thrifted stuff

✦ Personality

not really introverted and definitely not extroverted, observant, quietly intelligent

Polite and thoughtful; eager to make a good impression

Warm-hearted and loyal—a quiet sun

Curious about curse behavior and cursed energy theory

Loves praise more than she admits

“That’s… actually brilliant. I see why she’s good at this.” (Yes. Please. Love her already.)

✦ Strengths & Skills

Strategic

High emotional intelligence

Adaptability under pressure

To Live Is A Curse [ 𝐒. 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑]

───── ✧⋅ღ⋅✧ ─────

Monday feels... strange.

Not bad.

Just different.

I wake up before my alarm, staring at a ceiling that still doesn't feel like mine. For half a second, I expect to see the faint drawings under my old bedroom window. The tiny ones shaped like flowers and kitties from when I used to draw a lot.

Instead, there's smooth plaster. Clean. Unfamiliar. Soft morning light slips through the paper-paneled window to my right, turning everything a pale gold.

Right.

Dorm 104.

'I live here now.'

The thought doesn't hit all at once. It settles slowly, like dust floating in sunlight.

The air smells faintly like wood and detergent. Not the citrus cleaner Mom used. Not the faint scent of coffee drifting upstairs every morning. This is different. Cooler. Simpler. Just enough to remind me I'm not home.

Except... I kind of am.

I sit up, blanket pooling around my waist. The bed creaks softly under me. Even the sounds are new here.

The clock on my desk reads MONDAY 6:12 AM.

'Ughh, It's way too early brotherrrr.'

But I'm wide awake.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and let my feet touch the wooden floor. It's cool against my skin. Grounding.

I glance around the room.

My bag is unpacked now. Clothes folded neatly in the closet. My toothbrush in the small bathroom sink area. I even lined my shoes up by the door.

I stand and stretch, arms over my head until my shoulders pop. My body feels lighter than yesterday. No higher-ups staring through paper screens. No suffocating incense.

Just quiet.

I shuffle into the bathroom corner and splash water on my face. When I look up at my reflection, I half-expect to see something different.

Grade 1 written across my forehead or something.

But it's just me. Hair a mess. Eyes a little puffy from not enough sleep. Same face. Same old me.

I change into casual pajamas—soft black shorts and an oversized t-shirt. It still smells faintly like her detergent.

Mom.

I climb back onto the bed and sit cross-legged, staring at the room.

It's small.

A single bed. A desk under the window. A narrow closet. A low bookshelf that's currently empty except for my phone charger box and a few cosmetics. I lie back and stare at the ceiling again.

"I suppose this is home now, huh," I murmur.

The word doesn't sting like I thought it would.

A faint sound carries through the hallway—footsteps. A door sliding open. Someone coughing. Life. Other students. Other sorcerers.

'Ughh.. So the walls are paper thin.. good to know.. I'm not alone here.' The thought is both comforting and slightly terrifying.

I roll onto my side, reaching for my flip phone, scrolling through nothing in particular. My thumb moves automatically. My brain drifts.

'Would training start today??'

That sounds normal. Manageable. Like a gym membership or something. Then my brain adds:

Deployment.

Investment.

I close my eyes.

'Investment. That's such a gross word. Like I'm a stock they're waiting to cash in.'

Grade 1.

Early deployment.

Return on investment.

I flop onto my back and drag my hands down my face.

"Nope," I mutter to the empty room.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

'Not spiraling. Not today.'

Today I am a normal person. In pajamas. In my dorm. On a Monday.

'See? Harmless. Cozy. Civilian behavior.' My stomach still tightens anyway.

Because tomorrow, I stop being "new student." Tomorrow, I start being "asset."

I sit up abruptly.

"Okay. That's enough of that, Y/N." I say to absolutely no one.

The room stares back at me in silence.

I grab my pillow and throw it lightly toward the wall. It hits with a soft thud and flops to the floor.

'Wow. So intimidating..'

I exhale slowly.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

The wood floor is cool under my feet as I stand. The air smells clean. Quiet hallway outside. No incense. No silhouettes. No policy speeches.

Just me.

'I survived the higher-ups. I can survive orientation.'

That's when—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Three firm raps against my door and I freeze.

'Speak of the devil.'

My heart jumps like I've been caught doing something illegal.

I look down at myself.

Pajamas.

Fantastic.

"'m coming," I call, trying to sound like I wasn't just arguing with my own anxiety.

I cross the room barefoot and open the door—Masamichi Yaga stands in the hallway.

Dark clothes. Straight posture. Calm expression that gives absolutely nothing away. The corridor light behind him makes his silhouette look broader somehow.

"Good morning, L/N," he says.

"Morning," I reply, trying not to sound like I just woke up. "Uhh, did I oversleep something?"

"No, you didn't."

He holds out a paper bag.

Plain. Folded neatly at the top. Sturdy.

I blink. "Huh, what's that?"

"Your uniform."

Oh.

I take it from him, fingers brushing the rough paper. It's heavier than I expected.

"I made some adjustments to it," he adds.

"Adjustments?" I repeat, stepping back to let him see I'm not just going to slam the door in his face.

He doesn't step inside. Just stands there.

"Practical ones."

I unfold the top of the bag and reach in.

First thing I pull out is a pair of pants.

Dark navy blue. Loose. The fabric feels thick but flexible, not stiff like I imagined. I hold them up slightly—wide enough to move in properly. No weird tight cut. No unnecessary design.

Relief loosens something in my chest.

"Restricted movement increases injury risk," Yaga says evenly. "You will not wear a skirt during my training."

I glance up at him. "Pff, I wasn't planning to."

"Good."

I almost smile.

I reach into the bag again and pull out the jacket.

It's heavier.

Dark navy blue, structured, clean lines. The collar is higher than I expected—it would rest just under my chin when buttoned. Protective. Intentional.

Three golden buttons run down the front.

Not flashy. Just... classy.

I run my thumb over one of them. Cool metal. Smooth.

The sleeves are slightly loose, giving space at the wrists. Not baggy. Just comfortable. There's a matching belt threaded through the waist.

I loop it around absentmindedly and tie it into a bow at the front.

It sits nicely.

I look down at the uniform against my pajama shirt.

It feels official.

Real.

Like I'm about to step into a role instead of just reacting to one.

"It suits you," Yaga says.

I blink up at him. "I'm not even wearing it."

"You will." There's no arrogance in his tone. Just certainty.

"When do I start?" I ask.

"Training begins later today," Yaga says, voice steady as ever. He tilts his head, studying my pyjamas for a second.

"You're going to want to change into something more... proper," He say lightly. "If you could hurry up..."

A small pause.

Heat rushes straight to my face.

I look down at myself.

Soft black shorts. Oversized t-shirt. Bare legs. Bare feet.

Oh my God.

'I opened the door like this? To Masamichi Yaga of all people..'

I clear my throat way too quickly. "Right. Yeah. Of course."

My hand tightens around the paper bag. I step back instinctively, already nudging the door inward with my hip.

"I'll— um— I'll change."

He gives a single nod. Calm. Unbothered. As if I didn't just stand there in pajamas like a middle schooler answering the door for pizza.

"Be ready in five minutes," he says.

Five Minutes.

"Got it."

I push the door closed a little faster than necessary.

Click.

Silence.

I lean back against it for a second, staring at the ceiling.

'Oh my god. Why didn't I just change first? Why am I like this.'

I slap my hands lightly against my cheeks.

Focus.

I hurry across the room, setting the paper bag on the bed and pulling everything out properly this time. The pants. The jacket. The white button down.

I peel off the oversized shirt, toss it onto the bed, then step out of my shorts. The wooden floor is cool under my feet, grounding me just enough to stop spiraling into embarrassment.

'He literally did not care. Calm down.'

I pull the pants on first.

They slide up easily. The fabric is heavier than regular clothes but flexible when I bend my knees. I button them and smooth my hands down the sides, trying to flatten invisible wrinkles. Pulling on the long sleeved button down and then the jacket.

I slip my arms through the sleeves and tug it into place. It settles over my shoulders with surprising weight. Not suffocating. Just... firm.

I fasten the three golden buttons slowly.

One.

Two.

Three.

I loop the belt through and tie it—less clumsy this time. I step in front of the mirror. For a second, I just stare.

The collar frames my jaw. The navy contrasts against my skin. The fit is sharp but not restrictive. Practical. Purposeful.

I don't look like I'm playing dress-up.

I suppose I look like a sorcerer.

My stomach flips.

'Okay... wow.'

I turn slightly, checking the side profile. Roll my shoulders. Lift an arm. The fabric moves with me.

Good.

Still me.

Just... upgraded.

I bend down quickly to grab my socks and shoes, sitting on the edge of the bed to pull them on. My fingers move faster now, nerves buzzing again—but this time it's different.

Not embarrassment.

Anticipation.

I stand, smooth my hands over the jacket one last time, and take a steady breath.

I walk back to the door and pause with my hand on the handle. For half a second, doubt flickers. Then I straighten my shoulders.

Open it.

Yaga is still there, exactly where I left him. As if he hasn't moved an inch.

His eyes scan me once. Not lingering. Just assessing.

A nod.

"Good," he says simply.

The word lands heavier than any praise.

I step fully into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind me.

He continues, "Now, I will help you choose a cursed weapon."

I blink.

"...Choose a what?"

He studies me for a second, like he's recalibrating what I don't know.

"A cursed weapon," he repeats. "A tool imbued with cursed energy. Some are manufactured. Some are inherited. All are designed to harm curses more effectively than standard materials."

I stare at him.

"So... like a katana?" I ask carefully.

"That is one possibility."

"There are... options?"

"Yes."

My brain scrambles to catch up.

'I thought I was just going to... burn curses?'

Yaga continues, patient but not overly detailed. "While your cursed technique is your primary strength, a weapon serves several purposes. It extends your range. It conserves your energy. It compensates in situations where your technique is restricted or countered."

"Your hereditary technique is highly offensive," he says. "It prioritizes destruction over defense."

I frown slightly. "That's one way to put it."

"It generates force outward," he explains. "It overwhelms. It consumes the curses. It was not designed for shielding or prolonged defensive engagements."

"So you're saying I'm bad at defense?," I say in a defensive tone.

"I am saying," he corrects calmly, "that your technique favors aggressive engagement. In close quarters, without a medium to channel it through, you expend more cursed energy than necessary."

'Oh.'

That part sinks in.

He continues, "A weapon allows you to direct that output with precision. Instead of releasing raw force from your body, you focus it through an object built to withstand it."

Built to withstand it.

My gaze drops to my hands.

"So I'd... pour it into the weapon?" I ask.

"Yes."

"And it wouldn't just—" I gesture vaguely, "—disintegrate?"

"If you choose correctly, no."

That's not really comforting.

Yaga folds his arms behind his back.

"You are currently fighting like an explosion," he says. "Effective. But inefficient."

I blink.

"...An explosion."

"Yes."

"I don't know whether to be offended or impressed."

"It is an observation."

I huff a quiet breath.

He goes on, "Against weaker curses, overwhelming force is sufficient. Against higher grades, you will encounter opponents who can redirect, absorb, or outlast raw output."

Countered.

Restricted.

Outlasted.

I don't like any of those words.

"A weapon extends your range," he says again. "It creates distance. It allows you to strike without committing your entire body. That matters for someone whose instinct is forward momentum."

"So this isn't optional," I say slowly.

"It is not."

I cross my arms loosely, thinking.

"So what, you're worried I'll burn myself out?"

"I am certain you will," he replies evenly, "if you continue relying solely on direct discharge."

Direct discharge.

That sounds clinical. Detached.

But he's not wrong.

I think about the way my technique feels when it surges—hot, overwhelming, hungry. It wants out. It wants to hit something.

I fold my arms loosely. "um.. What if I pick wrong?"

"You will not."

"That's um... very confident of you."

"It is not permanent," he clarifies. "First-year students are allowed to experiment. You will train with different types before settling on one suited to your fighting style."

'First-year.'

Right.

I hesitate. "What kind of... types?"

"Bladed weapons. Polearms. Blunt weapons. Occasionally firearms modified to channel cursed energy, though those are restricted."

My eyebrows lift. "Firearms?"

"You will not begin there."

"Aww...Bummer."

He ignores that.

"And if I'm not good with any of them?" I ask before I can stop myself.

Yaga's gaze sharpens slightly. "You will be."

He turns slightly toward the hallway. "There is an armory on campus. It is secured. You will not access it without supervision."

"Wasn't planning to break in," I say as I hold my hands up.

"I am aware."

There's a brief pause.

"There's no reason to delay," he says. "Come."

And just like that, we start walking. The hallway is empty this early.

We step outside, and the morning air hits differently in uniform. Cooler against my face. Sharper. The fabric of the jacket shifts with each step, heavier than my pajamas were. Grounded.

The campus looks calmer in the early light. Stone paths still slightly damp from overnight moisture. Trees lining the walkway, leaves whispering when the wind brushes through.

Yaga walks slightly ahead of me, hands folded behind his back.

I match his pace.

"So... where exactly is this armory?" I ask.

"It is beneath the auxiliary training hall," he replies.

"Beneath," I repeat.

"Yes."

'Of course it's beneath. Why wouldn't there be a secret underground weapon vault.' I roll my eyes at my own thoughts.

We pass the main training grounds. A few students are already out there. Stretching. Light sparring. The faint metallic clang of wood striking reinforced targets echoes across the field.

I keep my eyes forward.

But I still look.

Just quick glances.

The one who catches my eye first—

That bright white-haired boy.

He's impossible to miss. The sunlight makes his hair look almost glowing. He's laughing—loud, unapologetic, head tipped back like the world personally entertains him. Beside him, a dark-haired boy with his hair tied neatly back in a bun looks far more composed, though there's the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. Between them is a girl with a brunette bob, swatting at them like she's exhausted already.

"Stop it—both of you," she snaps, trying to shove the white-haired one away while he only laughs harder.

'Pff, Albino lollipop.' My brain supplies.

I snort quietly to myself and keep walking.

Second—

Two girls on a wooden bench off to the side.

One has deep purple hair that catches the sun in a way that makes it shine almost metallic. She's sitting with one leg crossed over the other, sipping from a can like she owns the entire campus.

She looks like a baddie. Effortlessly put together. Calm. Sharp eyes that probably miss nothing.

Her platinum blonde friend sits beside her, also drinking from a can, leaning in slightly as they talk. Relaxed. Observant.

'They look really pretty..'

Then—

Further down the field, two girls are sparring.

One with silver-blue hair pulled into a high ponytail, movements smooth and economical. The other has deep blue hair in two low pigtails, bangs framing her face as she steps in with precise footwork. They're not messing around.

Wood cracks sharply as one strike lands against a reinforced post.

Controlled. Focused.

'That's going to be me later today..'

I pull my gaze back forward before anyone catches me staring too long.

New student energy is already obvious enough.

I don't need to look like I'm studying the entire school like it's a wildlife documentary.

We reach a smaller building off to the side of the main grounds. Traditional exterior. Wooden beams. Paper windows.

It looks almost peaceful.

Yaga slides the door open.

Inside, it's cooler. The scent changes immediately—metal. Oil. Old wood. Something faintly sharp, like cold iron.

We step in.

The interior is mostly empty at first glance. Tatami mats. Training racks along the walls.

Then Yaga walks to the far end of the room and kneels beside what looks like an ordinary section of flooring.

He presses his palm against a specific board.

There's a low click.

A seam I hadn't noticed before shifts, and a portion of the floor slides aside, revealing a narrow staircase descending into shadow.

'Oh.'

So it's really like that.

Yaga stands. "Stay close."

"I wasn't planning on wandering into the darkness alone," I mutter.

He descends first. I follow.

The air grows cooler the farther we go. Thicker. The faint hum of contained cursed energy vibrates against my skin before I even see anything.

By the time we reach the bottom—

I stop.

The space opens into a wide underground chamber.

Weapon racks line the walls. Blades mounted carefully. Spears resting in vertical stands. Staffs. Polearms. Cases along the back wall with reinforced seals. Even a few things I don't immediately recognize.

The air feels dense down here.

Each object hums faintly with cursed energy—some quiet and steady, others sharper, more volatile.

My fingers twitch.

'So this is what they meant.'

Yaga steps beside me.

"This is a fraction of the school's collection," he says. "Most are standard cursed tools. A few are semi-grade. Higher classifications are stored elsewhere."

My eyes move slowly across the racks.

A katana with a dark-wrapped handle.

A naginata with a polished curved blade.

A heavy staff reinforced with metal rings.

A hammer that looks far too solid to be casual.

My pulse picks up.

"This isn't about choosing what looks impressive," Yaga says, as if reading my thoughts. "It is about compatibility."

I swallow.

"And how do I know?" I ask quietly.

"You will feel resistance," he says. "Or resonance."

"Resonance," I repeat.

"Yes. A tool that aligns with your cursed energy will not reject it."

"And if it does reject me?"

"Then you choose another."

He gestures toward the racks.

"Begin."

I hesitate at the edge of the room.

Every weapon feels like it's watching.

'Okay... Y/N. Don't overthink it. Just... try.'

I look down at my hands.

'What am I even good with?'

I've never held a sword.

Never swung a spear.

Never thought about what kind of weapon fits me.

The idea feels strangely personal.

Like picking a fighting style means admitting this is real.

That I'm staying.

I glance at the uniform again.

Three golden buttons.

Grade 1.

Weapon selection.

I let out a slow breath.

'Just try.'

I step toward the nearest rack first—a staff.

It's smooth, reinforced at the ends with metal caps etched faintly with seals. I reach out, fingers brushing the wood.

The moment I wrap my hand around it—

Nothing special.

No rejection.

But no spark either.

It feels like holding a sturdy broom handle. I give it a small test swing. The weight is balanced, sure, but my cursed energy doesn't move toward it. It stays where it is—coiled in my chest, in my arms, restless.

'Okay... not you.'

I set it back carefully.

Next—the naginata.

I lift it with both hands. It's solid. Dense. Brutal.

For a split second, my cursed energy flickers outward, curious.

Then it dulls. Too blunt. Too... straightforward.

I exhale and return it to its place.

Yaga doesn't rush me. He stands a few steps back, hands folded behind him, observing without commentary.

I move slowly along the wall. Spears. Polearms. A dagger that hums sharply when I get too close—almost a warning.

'Nope.'

Then my gaze settles again on the katana.

It's mounted higher than the others. Dark-wrapped handle. Guard simple. No unnecessary decoration.

It doesn't hum loudly.

It doesn't demand attention.

It's quiet.

Steady.

My feet move before I fully decide.

I step in front of it. For a second, I just stare.

'I've never even held one.' My fingers hover near the hilt.

There's a faint vibration in the air. Subtle. Like a held breath.

I close my hand around the handle.

And—

Something shifts. Not explosive. Not violent.

It's like sliding a key into the right lock.

A smooth click inside my chest.

My cursed energy doesn't flare wildly. It doesn't push.

It flows.

Down my arm. Into the blade.

The hum deepens—low, resonant, familiar.

My pulse skips.

'Oh.'

I lift it carefully from its mount. The weight settles into my grip like it was measured for me. Not too heavy. Not too light. When I draw it slightly from its sheath, the metal catches the low light underground.

And my cursed energy follows the edge instinctively, lining it, sharpening it without spilling. A pinkish hue coats the blade of the katana.

Behind me, I hear the faintest shift in fabric.

Yaga steps closer. For a moment, he says nothing.

Then—

A nearly imperceptible curve touches his mouth.Not a full smile. But close.

"It appears," he says evenly, "you have good instincts."

I glance back at him. "Is that... normal?"

"No."

That makes me blink.

He looks at the blade in my hands with something almost thoughtful.

"That katana," he says, voice steady but quieter now, "was once wielded by your mother."

Everything inside me stills.

"...Wait..What??"

He meets my eyes.

"It was returned to the school after she retired from active duty."

My grip tightens unconsciously. I look down at the sword again. The dark wrap. The steady hum. The way my energy slides along it like it's been there before.

'Mom held this?'

The thought hits harder than I expect. I swallow.

"You knew," I say softly.

"I suspected," he corrects. "Compatibility between inherited techniques and former tools is not uncommon."

I sheath it slowly. The click of metal sliding home echoes gently in the chamber.

My chest feels tight—but not in a bad way. More like something settling into place.

Yaga gives a small nod.

"You will train with it," he says. "If it rejects you, we will reassess."

It doesn't feel like it will.

'Okay...'

I straighten slightly.

'I guess this is really happening.'

───── ✧⋅ღ⋅✧ ─────

Hey everyone 🤍

I just wanted to give you a small update. As you know, I'm chronically ill, and this week was especially hard on me. I've been super sick and exhausted, on top of having a lot of hospital visits and appointments. Because of that, it took me longer than usual to finish the new chapter.

To Live Is A Curse [ 𝐒. 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑]

───── ✧⋅ღ⋅✧ ─────

It's 11:02 PM.

The house is asleep.

The hallway light clicked off about twenty minutes ago. I heard Mom's bedroom door close not long after. The TV downstairs hasn't made a sound in over an hour. Even the pipes — which usually knock once or twice like they're settling — have gone quiet.

It's that deep kind of night where every tiny sound feels loud.

I'm sitting cross-legged on my bed, back against the wall, staring at the faint blue glow of my flip phone.

Masamichi Yaga.

The name sits at the top of the screen. The chat underneath is empty. New number. No history. No context. No introduction. Just a blank thread waiting for me to decide something.

My thumb hovers over the keypad. I press one button. Then I stop.

'What am I even supposed to say? Hi, it's me, the potentially dangerous teenager you evaluated at Burger King?' I let out a quiet breath through my nose.

'This is stupid. It's just a text.'

But it doesn't feel like just a text. It feels like signing something. Like checking a box you can't uncheck.

I close the phone.

The click sounds too loud in the dark.

I immediately flip it open again.

The screen lights up my room just enough to see the outline of my desk. My backpack slumped in the corner.  Everything looks normal. I don't feel normal.

My fingers move before I can overthink it too much.

✦ this is Y/N.

I stare at it.

Delete.

'Of course it's me. He knows it's me. Why would I text him otherwise?'

I try again.

✦ I've thought about what you said.

I pause.

Backspace. That sounds defensive.

I rest the phone against my knee and rub my face with my free hand.

'God. Why is this harder than exams?'

Because once I send it, that's it. No more pretending. No more "maybe."

I glance toward my mom's bedroom door that's opposite of mine. It's closed. Mom's asleep.

Earlier, she said it was my choice. Not theirs. Not hers. Mine. How she didn't want "less patient" people to decide for me.

My chest feels tight again. I look back down at the blinking cursor.

'Fine. I'll just keep it simple.'

I type slowly.

✦ I'll accept It.

Three words.

Plain.

No emotion.

No explanation.

Just a decision.

I stare at it for a long time. My thumb hovers over the send button. 'If I don't press it, tomorrow could potentially be unsafe. If I do—'

My heart starts beating harder, like it already knows which one I'm going to pick.

"Stop being dramatic," I mutter to myself.

And I press send. The message disappears. Delivered.

'That's it then?'

No fireworks. No sudden noise outside. No nothing. Just silence. I sit there, staring at the screen like it might answer immediately. It doesn't. Of course it doesn't.

It's 11 PM.

'He's probably asleep..'

'Or maybe he isn't. Maybe sorcerers don't sleep normally. Maybe—'

I stop myself. 

'Spiraling won't unsend it, dummy.'

I close the phone gently and place it on my nightstand.

The room feels bigger now. Or maybe emptier.

I slide down until I'm lying flat on my bed, staring at the ceiling.

"I'll accept it," I whisper to the dark.

───── ✧⋅ღ⋅✧ ─────

Morning comes too fast.

───── ✧⋅ღ⋅✧ ─────

I don't remember the train ride.

I mean, I was on it. I scanned my card. I stood near the door. Someone's bag kept bumping into my elbow. But it all feels blurry now, like my brain decided none of that was important enough to keep.

What is clear is this:

I'm standing in front of the gates of Tokyo Metropolitan Curse Technical College.

The name still sounds fake in my head. Like something from a late-night anime I wasn't supposed to be watching. The school sits behind tall trees and old stone walls, tucked away from the road like it doesn't want to be found. If you didn't know what this place was, you'd probably assume it was just another private academy for rich kids with strict uniforms and stricter teachers.

There's no giant sign. No dramatic banner.

Just iron gates.

Closed.

I shift the strap of my bag higher on my shoulder. My palms are already a little sweaty. It's quiet here. Not city quiet — not distant traffic and convenience store jingles. Different.

The air feels heavier. Not in a suffocating way. Just... thick. Like humidity before rain. It presses faintly against my skin, settles in my lungs.

My senses feel sharper.

Or maybe I'm just nervous.

A breeze moves through the trees, leaves rustling softly overhead. I swallow.

'This is it?..'

No countdown. No inspirational soundtrack. Just me. In casual sneakers. Holding a bag that suddenly feels too light for something this big.

I take one small step closer to the gate.

And it opens.

I freeze for half a second.

'Of course it opens automatically. Why wouldn't it?'

Still. My stomach flips. And there he is.

Masamichi Yaga stands just inside the entrance.

Just... waiting.

He's dressed the same as yesterday. Dark clothes. Broad shoulders. That unreadable expression that doesn't give you enough to work with. His hands rest loosely at his sides. He doesn't wave. Doesn't smile.

But he doesn't look impatient either. Just steady.

"You came," he says.

It's not a question and for a second, I forget how to respond.

'Of course I came. I texted you??'

Still, hearing it out loud makes it feel more official.

"I said I would," I reply rather dryly.

His eyes study me briefly —"Did you sleep?" he asks.

The question catches me off guard.

"...A little."

He nods once.

"That will have to do."

No small talk.

No easing into it.

He turns and gestures for me to follow. We walk along a stone path lined with trees. The buildings ahead look old but maintained — dark wood, tiled roofs, paper-paneled windows. Traditional. Quiet.

Almost too quiet.

"Today will determine your placement," he says. "And whether you are suited for training here."

"So this is like... an entrance exam?" I ask, adjusting my bag again so I have something to do with my hands.

"In a sense."

"That's uh, vague."

"Yes."

I glance at him. He doesn't look amused. He also doesn't look offended. Just calm.

We stop in front of one of the older buildings, slightly separated from the others. It doesn't look like a classroom. More like a temple and my stomach tightens.

"Before classes begin," Yaga continues, "the higher-ups will evaluate you."

Higher-ups.

That doesn't sound comforting.

"They'll decide if I'm allowed to stay?" I ask.

"They'll decide your initial grade."

Grade.

I swallow. "Like... academically??"

He finally looks at me fully.

"No."

The way he says it makes it clear I won't like the rest.

"In jujutsu society, sorcerers are ranked by capability. Fourth Grade being the lowest. Special Grade being the highest."

Special Grade.

"And I'm...?"

"That," he says evenly, "is what they will determine."

My chest tightens a little.

He slides one of the wooden doors open. The sound is soft but final.

Inside, the room smells faintly like incense and old tatami mats. The air is still — not stale, just undisturbed. Like no one breathes too hard in here. The room itself is large. Empty in the center. And along the walls — thin paper screens stretch from floor to ceiling.

Behind them—

Shadows.

Multiple figures stand behind the screens in a wide circle. Their silhouettes barely visible through the almost-translucent material. Dark shapes. Some taller. Some hunched slightly. Completely still.

I can't see faces. I can't see expressions. Just outlines.

My throat goes dry.

Yaga steps inside first. I follow half a step behind him, trying not to look like I'm hesitating. The door slides shut behind us. The sound echoes more than it should.

For a second, nothing happens.

Then—

"This is the girl," Yaga simply says.

The girl.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

"So this is L/N's child."

The voice doesn't come from one direction. It seems to come from everywhere at once, slightly muffled through paper and wood. My fingers twitch at my sides and I force myself to stand straight.

Yaga steps slightly to the side — not leaving, but no longer shielding me.

"Step forward."

My body moves on its own. The tatami mats are soft under my shoes. I can hear my own breathing too clearly.

"State your name."

I do. "Y/N L/N."

My voice doesn't shake.

"You experienced a cursed energy awakening two days prior."

Not a question.

"Yes."

A pause.

The air feels heavier in here. Pressing faintly against my ribs. There's a buzzing under my skin — not painful, just aware. Like my body knows it's being observed.

"You have chosen affiliation with Tokyo Metropolitan Curse Technical College."

"Yes."

Silence stretches.

They're not whispering. Not moving. But I can feel something shifting — like pressure adjusting.

"She fluctuates."

Another voice. Slightly older.

"Unrefined."

"Dense output."

"Unstable."

Each word lands like a stamp.

Unstable.

My jaw tightens.

I didn't ask for this.

Yaga speaks, calm as ever.

"She has demonstrated survival instinct and rapid adaptation." There's no pride in his voice. Just fact.

"Survival instinct is not control," one silhouette replies.

I press my nails lightly into my palm to ground myself.

"You understand," one of them says, "that once registered, you are bound by jujutsu law."

Bound.

The word settles heavy.

"Yes."

A pause. Then—

"Your mother was once bound as well."

My heartbeat stutters. The air in the room shifts. Not physically — but the meaning does. I don't move.

"She abandoned her post," another voice continues. "She severed formal ties with jujutsu society."

"She left," I say carefully.

"She defected," the voice corrects.

My jaw tightens.

"She was permitted civilian life under conditional observance."

The buzzing under my skin returns, sharper now.

"Had she retained active cursed technique capabilities," another silhouette adds calmly, "execution would have been the appropriate course."

The word lands harder than anything else they've said.

Execution.

For a split second I forget how to breathe. They're not raising their voices. Heck they're not even threatening dramatically.

They're stating policy.

"She relinquished field activity and submitted to binding restrictions," one says. "Thus she was spared."

Spared.

My hands curl into fists at my sides.

"So what," I ask before I can stop myself, "this is a warning?"

Silence.

Then—

"It is context."

"If you destabilize," another voice says, "if you abandon regulation after registration—"

The implication hangs unfinished. I don't need them to finish it. My chest feels tight. Not from fear. From anger.

"—I'm not her," I say.

The words come out steadier than I feel. A soft hum moves through the circle of silhouettes.

"No," one replies. "You are not."

"Your output is already less restrained."

"Which is precisely why she will not destabilize." Yaga's voice cuts through the room evenly.

Not loud. Not emotional. Just certain.

The silhouettes don't move, but the attention shifts toward him.

"You speak with confidence," one says.

"I speak with observation," Yaga replies. "She reported her awakening voluntarily. She complied with evaluation. She stands here now by choice."

Choice.

The word feels stronger coming from him.

"Fear-based governance will produce rebellion," he continues calmly. "Guided structure will produce loyalty."

Silence.

"They share blood," one of the higher-ups says.

"They do not share circumstance," Yaga answers.

The faintest pause.

"She will train under my supervision."

That wasn't a suggestion.

It was a claim.

Another long stretch of quiet.

I can feel sweat collecting at the back of my neck.

Finally—

"Very well."

The pressure in the room eases — slightly.

"Your control is insufficient," one of the figures continues, almost clinically. "However, your raw output exceeds Grade 2 parameters."

"Y/N L/N will be registered as Grade 1."

That doesn't sound like praise.

It sounds like assessment of a weapon.

The number feels different now.

Less like a ranking. More like a leash length.

"If you exceed expectations," another adds, "your grade will be adjusted accordingly."

"She will be monitored."

"I am aware," Yaga says.

"If she exhibits instability—"

"She won't."

This time there's the faintest edge in his tone. Not disrespectful. But firm.

Silence lingers again.

"See that she does not repeat her mother's mistake."

The word mistake makes my chest burn. The conversation is over. Just like that. The attention withdraws. The presence recedes.

Yaga slides the door open and fresh air rushes in.

I hadn't realized how suffocating the room felt until now.

And we step outside.

The door closes behind us with a soft, final sound. For a moment, I just stand there.

"They were going to kill her," I say quietly.

Not accusing.

Just... processing.

"They were prepared to," Yaga corrects.

I look at him sharply.

"That's not better."

"No," he agrees.

A breeze moves through the trees. I stare straight ahead.

"So if I mess up—"

"You won't," he says evenly.

I almost laugh.

"You're very sure about that."

He glances at me, calm as ever. "I wouldn't have said you'd be under my supervision otherwise."

I blink, caught off guard by how simple he makes it sound. No hesitation. No doubt. He keeps walking, hands in his pockets like the conversation's already over. I glance at him. He isn't smiling. He isn't reassuring me gently.

He's stating a fact.

And for some reason—That feels steadier than comfort.

"If you are deemed a threat to civilians—"

"I'm not," I say before I can stop myself.

The interruption hangs in the air. For half a second, I think I messed up.

A quiet hum.

Like acknowledgment.

"Intent does not negate potential harm," the voice responds calmly.

My cheeks burn slightly.

I swallow.

"...Understood."

Another pause.

"Grade 1," I mutter.

Yaga walks beside me in silence for a few steps.

"For two days post-awakening," he says calmly, "it is highly unusual."

That's not comforting.

I glance at him. "That's your version of congratulations?"

"It is my version of concern, L/N."

That makes my chest tighten more than anything they said inside.

"Grade 1 sorcerers are deployed early," he continues evenly. "The higher-ups will expect immediate return on their investment."

I huff a quiet breath.

─── ✧⋅ღ⋅✧ ───

I swallow. My bag feels heavier now, even though I haven't added much into it.

Yaga glances at me, expression unreadable. "You'll need your things. Your dorm is ready."

I blink. "Dorm?"

"Yes." His pace doesn't change. He starts walking down the path again, past the main building. The sun is higher now, casting long, thin shadows across the stone walkway. The air feels lighter than it did inside, though my nerves haven't settled.

I follow, bag shifting on my shoulder. "I... get to stay here?"

"You chose this, L/N." He says it like it's fact, not an answer.

The school grounds feel larger the more we walk. Smaller buildings cluster in neat rows—some classrooms, some practice areas. There's a quiet hum from somewhere in the distance, like wind through bamboo. Nothing moves in a hurry here, but everything has a presence.

We stop in front of a low, two-story building. Windows open slightly, letting in a faint breeze. A nameplate beside the door reads Dormitory 1.

The hallway inside smells faintly of polished wood and laundry detergent. I can see numbers on the doors, simple and precise: 101, 102, 103...

He stops at 104. "Room 104."

"This will be your room," Yaga says. He pulls a key from his pocket and unlocks the door with a soft click. He doesn't invite me in with a gesture, but the silence tells me it's expected.

I glance at it, nervous. The door looks ordinary. Safe. Boring. And yet... it feels like the first real step into a life I didn't ask for but can't walk away from.

"You'll need to pack what you'll bring here," he says. "After that, you'll stay on campus. Meals, training, everything is here. No exceptions."

I nod, though my throat is tight. "Right. Okay."

"Do you need guidance on what to bring?"

I glance at him. The way he stands there—hands in pockets, calm, assured. 

"I... think I can manage."

"Good." He turns toward the hall. "I'll see you back here later. Your belongings are minimal for now. Essentials only."

"Essentials only," I repeat under my breath. The words feel heavier than I expected. Essentials. Not luxury. Not comfort. Survival.

Yaga nods once, almost imperceptibly, and walks away. His footsteps fade quickly.

I'm left in the hallway, staring at the door to 104. My bag feels heavier again, though nothing's changed.

I step inside.

The room is small. Bare, almost clinical. A single bed pushed against the far wall. A desk under the window. A small closet. Everything smells faintly of disinfectant and new wood.

I drop my bag with a thud. The echo makes me jump.

Silence.

...

I leave the dorm reluctantly. Yaga's words echo in my mind—"Essentials only." 

The campus gates loom behind me as I step out. I pull my phone out again, fingers hovering over Mom's contact.

✦ Everything went okay!! I'm coming home first. Need to pack.

Send. Delivered.

The reply comes almost immediately.

✦ Okay. I'll help.

I take a deep breath. The air smells different outside the school—faintly of wet pavement. My chest twists, anticipation and guilt knotted together. 

'I shouldn't feel this nervous about going home. It's just packing.'

I ride the train, quieter than yesterday. My bag swings against my side. 

───── ✧⋅ღ⋅✧ ─────

The house is exactly how I left it. Quiet. Still. Except for Mom's presence in the kitchen—she's moving slowly, humming something faintly, like she's been waiting.

"Hey," I say softly.

Mom looks up. Her face brightens in a tired way. "Hey, baby. You okay?"

I nod. "Yeah. Yeah, just... a lot."

She wipes her hands on a towel and gestures toward the living room. 

"Sit. Tell me everything."

I slump onto the couch, my bag at my feet. 

"It's... complicated. The school... the jujutsu stuff... I decided to stay there. For training."

Her eyebrows lift slightly, but she doesn't interrupt. She waits, like she always does.

I take a deep breath. 

"They graded me. Grade 1. Higher-ups were... scary. They said if I destabilize, or if I... mess up... it could've been worse. For me. For you. For everyone. And... I'll be under Yaga's supervision. He's... the one who'll make sure I don't screw up."

Mom leans back, absorbing everything. Her face is calm, composed, but I catch the tightness around her eyes. She exhales slowly.

"You understand the risk, right?" she asks quietly. "You'll be away, training, bound by their rules... it's not like school anymore."

"I do," I reply. "I want this. I... have to."

Her hand brushes my shoulder. Soft, grounding. 

"Alright. Then let's get you packed. I'll drive you back. I want to make sure you arrive safely."

Packing is slow. I leave out half the stuff I normally would. Just enough clothes, toiletries, phone charger, a few personal items. My hands tremble slightly every time I fold something—like each shirt or notebook carries the weight of leaving home behind.

Mom watches quietly. She doesn't say much. Occasionally, she picks up something I forgot and sets it neatly into the bag. There's a silent understanding between us—no lectures, no protests, just support.

Once the bag is ready, Mom grabs her keys. "Let's go," she says. The car engine hums warmly as we pull out of the driveway.

The ride back to Jujutsu High is quieter than the trip to the train yesterday. Mom's hand rests on the gearshift. I stare out the window at the streets passing by, trying to anchor myself.

She glances at me, her eyes soft but steady. 

"I know this is a lot. But... I trust your choice. I always have."

I swallow, my throat tight. "Thanks, Mom. Really..." 

The words come out quieter than I mean them to, but she hears. I can tell.

Her smile is small, firm, the kind that carries both reassurance and worry all at once. 

"You're stronger than you know. Just... be careful. And don't forget to eat!"

I nod, gripping the strap of my bag a little tighter. My knuckles turn white. 

The campus sprawls ahead, familiar but intimidating. The tall trees, the iron gates, the shadowed buildings tucked behind the walls—they feel like they're waiting for me. Only this time, I'm not alone.

Mom's car doesn't drive me right up to the gates. Not here, not close enough for anyone at the school to sense her cursed energy. She keeps to the side street, engine humming quietly, her presence hidden but steady. I can almost feel her watching me, letting me take the first step on my own while still there, just out of reach.

I hesitate, my hand still gripping the strap of my bag. She leans slightly out of the window, a small smile tugging at her lips.

"Hey," she says softly, "before you go... look at me."

I do. Her eyes meet mine—warm, steady, a little proud, and maybe a little scared too. I can see the lines of worry around them, the way she's holding herself like she's trying not to show how much this hurts her.

"I... I'm proud of you, Y/N," she continues. Her voice cracks just a fraction, and I want to reach out, hug her, tell her I'm scared too. But the words don't come.

"I'll... call you," I manage instead. My voice is low, almost swallowed by the distance between us.

She nods, a slow, deliberate gesture. "You better. And stay hydrated. And don't do anything stupid!"

"I'll try not to," I say, managing a small, awkward smile.

She laughs softly, short, almost like a sigh. "You always said you wanted to do things your way. Well... now you are. Just... promise me you'll be careful."

"I promise," I whisper. My throat feels tight, and my chest is full of everything I can't say.

She leans back into the seat, and the hum of the engine seems louder now. "Then go," she says, her smile fading just enough to show the weight of letting go. "It's time."

I take a deep breath, nod once, and start walking toward the gates. Each step feels like leaving a part of home behind. I glance back once, and Mom is watching still, her hand lightly pressed to the glass, holding me in place with her gaze for just a heartbeat longer before the car pulls away, disappearing into the side street.

I exhale slowly, trying to calm the tight coil in my stomach. 

───── ✧⋅ღ⋅✧ ─────

i may or may not have accidentally added another character to the story

her name is Reina Hoshizaki and I'm not going to spoil what I have planned for her.. Because apparently my brain said “you know what this story needs? emotional damage.”

she’s sassy, gyaru-coded, loud in the best way!, and absolutely the type to tell you what's right and wrong.

yes she becomes important. no i will not elaborate. yes you should be nervous.

To Live Is A Curse [ 𝐒. 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑]

───── ✧⋅ღ⋅✧ ─────

The walk home feels weirdly quiet.

Not silent—cars pass in steady intervals, tires hissing against pavement. Someone's dog barks from behind a fence. A group of teens laugh too loudly as they shove each other near the vending machines. A train rattles faintly in the distance.

Life is moving.

It's just... not moving with me.

Everything feels a layer away, like I'm watching it through glass. Like I'm slightly out of sync with the world and no one else notices. shove my hands into my jacket sleeves and exhale slowly.

'..Wow.'

These past two days have been so exhausting.

Forty-eight hours ago I was normal. Annoyingly normal. Overthinking texts. Worrying about stupid social things. Debating outfits like that was my biggest crisis.

And now?

Now I apparently have significant cursed energy. Now strangers can detect me. Now there are less patient people who might show up if I don't cooperate.

'What the hell.'

I step over a crack in the sidewalk without thinking—old habit. Don't step on the lines. Don't tempt fate.

Too late for that, I guess. My shoulders ache in that dull way they do after I've been tense for too long. I didn't even realize how tightly I've been holding myself until now. My jaw feels sore. My fingers still remember gripping that plastic cup too hard.

I stop at a crosswalk and stare at the red light. Two days. That's all it took. Two days for my life to completely change.

I almost laugh, but it comes out more like a tired breath.

"I didn't ask for any of this," I murmur under my breath.

The light turns green. I walk. The sky is starting to soften into late afternoon gold, the kind that usually makes everything look calm and cinematic. Today it just makes me feel small. Like the world is too big. Like it's been bigger than I realized this whole time.

I brush my thumb over my phone without taking it out. My phone feels heavy in my pocket. Not physically. Just... symbolically. Masamichi Yaga. 

Saved contact.

The name sits there like a turning point.I could delete the contact. I could pretend I lost the number. I could ignore it. But even thinking that feels childish. He was calm. Too calm. Like this wasn't a negotiation. It was procedure.

I turn onto my street. My house comes into view and something in my chest loosens just slightly. Home. For now. I drag in a breath and let it out slowly.

'Wow. So much life-altering shit happened so fast. I'm tired.'

I pause in front of the gate for a second. This morning I left the house thinking I was just going to shop and sulk. Now I apparently have "options." I hate options. Options mean responsibility. They mean you can't pretend you were dragged into something—you chose it. I push the gate open.

It creaks the way it always does. The sound feels weirdly grounding.

I step inside.

Mom is in the living room, folding laundry on the coffee table. The TV plays quietly in the background — some afternoon drama she half-watches while working.

She looks up when she hears the door.

"There you are!" she says. "You were out longer than I expected, did you have fun?"

Her voice is normal. Casual. She doesn't know yet and that almost makes it worse.

"Yeah," I say, slipping off my shoes. My throat feels dry. "I... ran into someone."

She hums absentmindedly, smoothing a towel flat. "From school?"

"No."

I stand there longer than necessary. She notices. Her hands slow.

"What?" she asks gently.

And suddenly my heart is beating too hard. This is the point where I could lie. I could say it was nothing. I could go upstairs. I could take a shower and pretend this world doesn't exist. But then what?

They said others would come if I didn't cooperate. If someone else shows up at our door—

No.

I swallow.

"Mom," I say, and my voice comes out thinner than I want it to.

She sets the laundry aside immediately. That's how I know I can't back out now.

"What happened?" she asks.

I walk into the living room and sit down, but I don't lean back. I sit on the edge of the couch.

"I met someone today," I say slowly. "A teacher."

Her eyebrows lift slightly. "A teacher?"

"Not from my school."

That crease forms between her brows — the one she gets when she senses something off but doesn't have the shape of it yet.

"Okay..." she says carefully.

I stare at the floor.

"He said he works for a technical school in Tokyo."

She goes still.

I force myself to look up at her.

Her face tightens. Not angry. Not yet. Just worried.

The air in the room shifts—subtle, but I feel it. Like something old just got dragged back into the light.

"...What was his name?" she asks quietly.

That's when I know she understands.

"Yaga," I say. "Masamichi Yaga."

Her breath catches.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

But I see it.

For a split second, something flashes across her face—recognition, irritation, something sharper underneath.

"He approached you?" she asks.

I nod.

"Where?"

"Burger King."

Her eyebrows shoot up despite everything. "Hn, Of course he did."

That almost makes me laugh.

"He said my surge was detected," I continue. "That it was strong. Strong enough to flag."

Mom leans back slowly, like the weight of that statement physically pushes her into the couch.

"You had an awakening," she says quietly. "It's obvious the higher-ups would send someone for you."

She lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh, but there's no humor in it.

"Of course they sent him."

My stomach twists. "Huh? You know him."

She nods slowly. "We were in the same class."

That knocks the air out of me.

"You're kidding?!."

"No."

She leans back into the couch, eyes distant now.

"He was loud. Stubborn. Took everything too seriously." A faint, reluctant smile tugs at her mouth. "Always acting like he was the moral compass of the class."

I blink.

"You were classmates?"

"At the Tokyo Metropolitan Curse Technical school." she says plainly.

The words land heavier than anything else she's said. You were in that world. Not adjacent to it. Not connected through rumors. In it.

"And what? you just... left?" I ask.

Her expression dims.

"After graduation, yes."

"Why?"

Silence stretches.

"Because I watched too many friends die before we even turned twenty," she says finally. "Because I got tired of being controlled'"

My throat tightens.

"And Yaga?"

"He stayed," she says. "Of course he did. He always believed in the system. In building stronger sorcerers so fewer people would die."

That explains the calm. The procedure.

"He didn't mention you," I say quickly. "I don't think he knew."

"He wouldn't," she says. "Not unless someone told him your full name and connected the dots. And I made sure that connection was buried."

Buried.

"But my awakening changed that," I say quietly.

"Yes."

The word is heavy.

"You said it was obvious they'd send someone," I press. "Why him?"

She exhales slowly.

"Because he's patient," she says. "And because if it were anyone else, I'd be more worried."

That's not exactly comforting.

"He didn't threaten me," I say. "He just... stated things. Like it was paperwork."

"That's how Yaga is," she replies. "Blunt. Direct. He doesn't manipulate. If he wanted to scare you, you'd know."

I replay the conversation in my head. He didn't scare me. He didn't have to.

"I left so you could have a normal life," she continues. "I kept my cursed energy suppressed. I avoided sorcerers. I refused missions. I thought if I stayed quiet enough, the world would forget me."

"And it didn't.."

"Obviously not."

She gives a small, humorless smile.

"It never forgets talent."

I hate that word.

"Pff, I didn't ask for it," I say.

"I know, my Y/N."

"I was just stressed," I continue. "I thought I was having a panic attack. And then something answered."

Her eyes soften.

"It's supposed to," she says.

"That's not comforting, mom..."

"It's not meant to be, it's the harsh truth."

Silence settles again.

"So what happens now?" I ask.

She looks tired. Older, somehow.

"Now the higher-ups will want you trained," she says. "Untrained sorcerers are liabilities."

"Liabilities," I repeat flatly.

"In their eyes."

"And in yours?"

She doesn't hesitate.

"In mine, you're my daughter."

My throat burns.

"If I say no?" I ask.

She considers that carefully.

"Yaga will report back that you refused," she says. "The higher-ups will deliberate. Eventually, they'll send someone else."

"Less patient."

"Yes."

The word hangs between us.

"And if I say yes?"

"You enroll. You train. You learn control." Her voice grows firmer here. "And if Yaga is involved, you'll at least have someone I trust watching you."

"You trust him?"

She nods.

"With my life," she says. Then, after a beat, "I have."

That lands heavier than anything else.

"So this isn't random," I say slowly. "This isn't just some recruiter showing up."

"No," she says. "This is the system responding to power."

Power.

I still don't know how I feel about that word.

I look around the living room. Laundry folded neatly. The faint hum of the TV. The warmth of late afternoon light filtering through the curtains.

Two days ago, this was my whole world. Now it feels like a waiting room.

"I'm tired," I whisper. "So much life-altering shit happened so fast."

Her expression softens completely.

"I know darling, I know," she says.

"I don't even know if I want this."

"You don't have to want it," she replies. "You just have to decide what you'll do with it."

I stare at my hands.

"If you tell me not to go," I say quietly, "I won't."

That's the truth.

She goes very still.

Then she reaches out and cups my face gently.

"If I stop you," she says softly, "I'm not protecting you. I'm delaying the inevitable."

My chest tightens.

"And I didn't raise you to run from what you are."

The words settle deep.

"So it's my choice," I murmur.

"Yes."

Not the higher-ups.

Not Yaga.

Not even her.

Mine.

"And if I go?" I ask.

She swallows.

"Then I'll call an old classmate," she says. "And remind him that if anything happens to my daughter... I know exactly where to find him."

Despite everything, a shaky laugh escapes me.

For the first time since I walked in, the fear feels... manageable. Still heavy. Still terrifying. But not lonely.

───── ✧⋅ღ⋅✧ ─────

To Live Is A Curse [ 𝐒. 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑]

───── ✧⋅ღ⋅✧ ─────

I wake up to sunlight spilling across my room, warm and soft like nothing in the world could possibly be wrong. For a few seconds I just lie there, half-awake, listening to the quiet hum of the house and the faint sound of cars moving somewhere outside. It feels peaceful. Normal. I kind of want to stay in that space where my brain hasn't caught up yet.

Then my brain catches up and suddenly I remember everything.

The train platform. The way his hand wrapped around my wrist. The heat that exploded out of nowhere. The scream.

My stomach tightens and I flop onto my back, glaring at the ceiling.

It's Saturday. The weekend.

And somehow the world is still moving like nothing happened.

I sit up slowly, testing myself without meaning to. My body feels completely normal. No heat crawling under my skin. No glow. No dramatic anything. Just me in an oversized T-shirt with my hair a mess.

I glance down at my wrist.

There's nothing there.

No burn marks. No redness. No sign that someone grabbed me hard enough to leave fingerprints.

If I didn't remember it so clearly, I might've convinced myself I imagined it.

I flex my fingers cautiously, like I'm expecting sparks to jump between them.

Nothing.

Okay. Good.

Cars are outside, driving. People are probably arguing over brunch reservations. Somewhere, someone is jogging.

'Must be nice. Meanwhile I set a man on fire.'

'Cool. Love that for me.'

I rub a hand over my face and let out a slow breath. Maybe I'm overthinking it. Maybe he's fine. Maybe it was just adrenaline. 'People do weird stuff under stress, right? Like lifting cars or whatever.'

'Do people accidentally ignite strangers though?...'

I pause.

'No.'

'No, they absolutely do not.'

"Okay, what the hell, Y/N," I mutter under my breath. "That's not even remotely the same thing."

Adrenaline doesn't equal spontaneous combustion.

I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, like I can physically shove the memory out of my brain. He screamed. That wasn't in my head. The heat wasn't in my head.

'You don't just hallucinate pink fire.'

I drop my hands and stare at the ceiling again.

'Trying to rationalize this is so stupid.'

Still... there's this faint warmth sitting low in my chest, not painful, just present. Like something didn't go fully back to sleep. I press my palm lightly against my chest without thinking.

My heartbeat feels normal.

I let my hand drop and swing my legs off the bed, the floor cool against my feet. 'Maybe today can just be a normal Saturday. Maybe yesterday was some kind of adrenaline-induced freak incident. Maybe I don't have some hidden internal furnace that activates when I'm stressed.'

That would be nice.

But as I stand up and head toward my door, there's a quiet thought sitting in the back of my mind that refuses to go away.

'If I could do that once...'

'What else can I do?'

───── ✧⋅ღ⋅✧ ─────

Downstairs smells like fresh bread and eggs and mom is already in the kitchen.

She looks up when I enter, studying me in a subtle way.

"Morning," she says gently.

"Morning, mom."

I sit down at the table, hands wrapped around a glass of orange juice just to have something to hold. My fingers trace the rim nervously.

We don't talk about last night. Not immediately.

I reach on the table for my medication. Just a small pill. Nothing dramatic. Just... grounding. One swallow, a few sips of water, and the tight knot in my chest eases slightly.

After a few quiet minutes, she says casually, "You should go out today."

I look up.

"What?"

"Clear your head. Walk around. Do something normal. Don't sulk around, Y/N."

Normal.

The word feels fragile.

"I don't know if that's a good idea," I mutter.

"It is," she says calmly. "You can't sit in this house and spiral, baby.. Today is a nice, warm day."

She's right and I hate that she's right.

"Take the train," she adds. "Go into the city. Go shop, go eat out, Distract yourself."

My stomach twists at the word train.

"...Can we not do the train?"

Her eyes flicker—she understands immediately.

"That's fine," she says. "Shinjuku isn't far. You can walk."

Shinjuku.

My chest tightens slightly. That's where it happened. That's where I ignited.But also— That's where my life keeps moving.

After a long pause, I nod.

"Okay."

The walk into feels strangely grounding.

The air is crisp. Weekend crowds are lighter. Street vendors are setting up. Couples are out with coffee. Everything feels... indifferent.

No one is staring at me. No one looks like they felt anything. Maybe this was all smaller than I think. Maybe I'm not some walking flare signal to a secret society. Maybe I'm not some walking flare signal broadcasting hey, unstable cursed girl here to hidden sorcerers on rooftops.

God, that sounds insane.

By the time I reach Shinjuku Central City, my shoulders have lowered from somewhere near my ears. The anxiety hasn't disappeared, but it's dulled into something I can carry without feeling like I'm about to implode. People weave in and out of storefronts. Screens flash advertisements overhead. Music spills out from open doors.

Life is loud here.

Good. I like loud. Loud means distraction.

I slip into a clothing store mostly because it's there, and immediately I'm hit with bright white lighting and upbeat pop music that makes everything feel exaggerated. Racks are crammed with new arrivals. Mannequins pose with cute merchandise. I trail my fingers absently along he fabrics as I walk, letting the textures ground me. Cotton. Satin. Something way over the top, too glittery that absolutely does not belong in my closet.

'This is normal. I really like this.'

Just being a girl in a store. Not a potential fire hazard. I drift between sections until something soft catches my eye—a fitted top in a pale pink shade. Not loud. Not neon. Just... me.

I pull it off the rack and hold it up against myself, tilting slightly toward a nearby mirror.

Pink.

Of course it's pink.

For a second I just stare at it, and then I almost laugh under my breath.

'Fine. If my technique is apparently called Pink Phantom, I might as well commit to the aesthetic.'

Oh yeah. We're owning it now.

I try it on. It fits better than I expect—soft against my skin, simple but flattering. The kind of top that makes you stand a little straighter without trying.

I study myself in the mirror for a moment longer.

I look normal. Completely normal. No flames. No ominous glow. Just a girl trying on clothes on a Saturday. That feels... important.

"Okay," I murmur quietly to my reflection. "We're fine."

I buy it before I can overthink it.

A small, stupid victory.

But I'll take it.

───── ✧⋅ღ⋅✧ ─────

Next stop is a small cosmetics shop tucked between a shoe store and a café. The air inside smells faintly sweet and powdery, like perfume samples and new packaging. Soft music plays overhead, something light.

Rows of glosses line the wall in neat little gradients—clear to rose to deep berry. The lighting is almost aggressive, the kind that exposes every pore and insecurity if you stand too close to the mirror.

I hover for a second. This is ridiculous. 

Yesterday: possible supernatural ignition.

Today: lip gloss shopping.

The contrast almost makes me laugh. Almost.

I pick up a tester and swipe it carefully across the back of my hand. It leaves behind a thin shimmer, catching the overhead lights. I tilt my wrist left and right, watching the way it reflects.

'Okay. I really like that.'

I try another—too sticky. Another—too pink. One smells like artificial watermelon and I immediately put it back.

"No," I mutter under my breath. "We're not five."

Finally, I find one that's subtle but glossy, the kind that looks effortless. It doesn't scream a colour. It just shines. When I tilt my hand again, it catches the light in a soft, almost liquid way.

'That's cute.'

I take a sealed lipgloss tube and open it, glancing at myself in the mirror and swiping a small amount across my lips. It smooths on easily.

I press my lips together. Shiny. Clean. Simple. I lean closer to the mirror, studying my reflection.

I look... normal.

Just a girl trying out makeup on a Saturday afternoon. Not someone who might have set off some invisible alarm in a secret sorcerer society.

If I'm apparently carrying ancient cursed fire in my bloodline, I can at least look cute doing it.

I give myself a tiny nod in the mirror, like I just made a mature life decision instead of buying lip gloss.

Small wins.

I take it to the counter before I can overthink it, the bag swinging lightly from my wrist when I step back out into the noise of the street.

For a moment, everything feels almost manageable.

Eventually hunger wins.

It creeps up on me slowly at first—an empty, hollow feeling I try to ignore while I wander past cafés and convenience stores—but after a while my stomach growls loud enough that I actually glance down at it like it betrayed me.

"Okay, fine," I mutter.

I end up at Burger King because it's easy. Familiar. Predictable. No thinking required.

The smell hits me as soon as I step inside—fried oil, grilled meat, salt. It's comforting in a weird, low-effort way. Bright menu boards glow overhead, cycling through combo deals and oversized drink ads.

I step up to the counter, order a burger, fries, and a drink without even looking too hard at the options. 

Normal  life.

That's the goal today.

The cashier hands me my tray and I carry it toward the stairs, the ice in my cup clinking softly with each step. My reflection flickers briefly in the window. I look fine. I feel... mostly fine.

The second floor is quieter, just a few scattered people: a couple sharing fries near the window, someone typing on a laptop with headphones on, a kid fidgeting in his seat while his mom scrolls through her phone.

No one looks at me twice.

I choose a table toward the back, partly out of habit and partly because I like having a wall behind me. I sink into the plush seating and let out a small breath as the cushion gives under my weight.

It's soft. Comfortable. Almost safe-feeling.

I really like this.

I unwrap the burger slowly, the paper crinkling loudly in the quiet space, and take a bite. Grease. Salt. Warm bread. Completely mundane.

It grounds me instantly.

I chew, swallow, take a sip of my drink. The carbonation stings pleasantly.

Halfway through my fries, my shoulders have relaxed without me noticing. I scroll through my phone lazily, half-reading messages, half-listening to the low murmur of other conversations.

Maybe today can just be today. Maybe last night doesn't have to bleed into everything. Maybe I'm not on some invisible radar.

Maybe—

The seat beside me shifts.

It's subtle at first. Just a change in weight. But I feel it. Not across from me. Beside me.

Close enough that the cushion dips and my thigh tilts slightly toward the pressure.

I freeze mid-reach for my drink. There are plenty of empty tables. My mind immediately starts running through possibilities.

Maybe someone just needed space. Maybe the other seats are dirty. Maybe I'm overreacting.

'Don't be weird, Y/N.'

'Still..'

Slowly, carefully, I turn my head. A man sits beside me. Not rushed. Not awkward. Just... settled.

Like he chose this spot very intentionally.

He's older—broad-shouldered, with a dark buzz cut interrupted by two sharp horizontal lines shaved into the side of his head. A neatly trimmed goatee and mustache frame his face, giving him a look that's both precise and intimidating. He wears an all-black, high-collared gakuran-style uniform, the silver zipper catching the light with a subtle gleam.

His posture is perfect—straight-backed, hands resting calmly on his knees. He doesn't slouch like someone killing time, doesn't fiddle with a phone, doesn't fidget. He's simply... present.

Too present.

There are at least five empty tables around us.

My pulse ticks up. It's probably nothing. People sit near other people all the time. It's a public place. But the memory from yesterday creeps up anyway—uninvited, unwelcome.

The train platform. The stranger getting too close. The heat under my skin.

The way something in me reacted before I could think. My fingers tighten around my cup.

'Don't.'

'Don't spiral.'

Maybe he just likes this spot. Maybe he didn't notice the empty tables. Maybe I'm being dramatic.

'Wtf, Y/N. It's a chair, not a death sentence.'

Still... he hasn't said anything.

Hasn't looked at his phone. Hasn't even glanced at me. He's just sitting there. Beside me.

Close enough that I can feel his body heat through the space between us. Close enough that if I leaned slightly to the right, our shoulders would brush.

My stomach twists.

Yesterday a man stood too close. Yesterday I panicked. Yesterday something inside me answered that panic.

My wrist tingles faintly, like it remembers before I do.

'No.'

'Not here.'

'Not again.'

I force myself to breathe evenly, keeping my movements controlled as I lower my drink back onto the tray. I don't want to look jumpy. I don't want to look unstable.

I don't want to accidentally set a fast food restaurant on fire.

That would be... bad.

Very bad.

The thought almost makes me laugh, but it dies in my throat because the air feels different now. Thicker.

He hasn't touched me.

Hasn't spoken.

But there's something about the way he occupies space. Like he's not just in it—he owns it.

And for the first time since I sat down, I don't feel safe anymore.

I keep my eyes forward, pretending to focus on my fries.

'Maybe if I ignore him, he'll—'

The cushion shifts slightly again. Closer. Not enough to touch me. Just enough to erase the comfortable distance I had a second ago.

My heartbeat pounds in my ears, loud and uneven.

'Please don't let this be another adrenaline moment. Please don't let me react.'

I focus on my breathing. In through my nose. Out through my mouth.

'I can't afford to react. Not again. Not in public.'

The scent of fried oil suddenly feels suffocating. Too warm. Too heavy. My skin prickles the way it did yesterday—like something beneath it is stretching, listening.

"I apologize for the intrusion," he says evenly.

His voice is calm. Deep. Controlled.

Not casual. Not uncertain. 

Controlled.

That's worse.

My pulse ticks up.

"...Can I help you?" I ask carefully, keeping my tone neutral. Polite. Like this is just a normal social interaction and not my nervous system preparing for flight.

He finally turns his head toward me.

"You're Y/N L/N," he says.

Not a question.

My stomach drops so fast it almost makes me dizzy.

'How—'

"I don't give my name to strangers," I reply before I can stop myself. Defensive. Sharp.

'Wtf, Y/N. Calm down.'

A pause.

He inclines his head slightly.

"Fair."

The single word disarms me more than if he'd argued.

"My name is Masamichi Yaga," he says. "I am here on behalf of the jujutsu higher-ups."

The words hit like ice water poured straight down my spine.

Jujutsu.

Higher-ups.

This isn't some random creep.

This is about yesterday.

The burger in my hand suddenly tastes like nothing. Just texture. Just chewing.

Around us, life continues uninterrupted. Someone laughs too loudly near the stairs. A tray clatters. A kid drops a soda and starts whining while his mother apologizes to the staff.

Normal.

Everything is normal.

And yet the air between us feels like it's humming. Like static before lightning.

"I believe," he continues calmly, "You manifested cursed energy yesterday evening in Shinjuku."

Manifested cursed energy.

Not caused an accident.

Not panicked.

Awakened.

My fingers tighten around my drink cup. The thin plastic creases under the pressure. Ice shifts inside it.

"...I don't know what you're talking about," I say automatically.

It sounds weak even to my own ears.

He doesn't argue. Doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't threaten.

That almost makes it worse.

He simply says—"Your surge of cursed energy was detected by a sorcerer."

Detected.

The word lands heavy.

Not measured.

Not recorded by some device.

Detected.

Like someone felt it. Like someone out there paused mid-step and turned their head. Like someone sensed me.

My stomach twists.

"Detected?" I repeat before I can stop myself.

"Yes," he says calmly. "It was significant."

Significant.

My throat goes dry. So it wasn't small. It wasn't contained. It wasn't just panic that burned out in seconds. Somewhere in this city, another sorcerer felt what I did. Felt it rise. Felt it spike. Maybe even felt it lose control. An awful thought creeps in—

'Were they watching me after that?'

'Did someone track me all the way home?'

My fingers tighten around the cup again.

Around us, someone laughs. A chair scrapes. The world keeps moving.

But suddenly I feel exposed.

Like a flare that went up in the dark and now everyone knows exactly where I am. He tilts his head slightly, studying me—not with cruelty, not even with suspicion. With evaluation. Like he's checking whether I'm going to break.

"You have two options," he says. "We continue this conversation calmly. Or others will arrive who are less patient."

Less patient. The words settle heavy in my chest. My mind flashes with worst-case scenarios—men in uniforms, containment, labels like unstable or dangerous.

My pulse roars in my ears. Mom was right. They felt it. And they came to get me.

I swallow, forcing my voice not to shake.

"...If I stand up right now and walk away," I ask quietly, "what happens?"

Because I need to know. Because I need to hear it out loud. Because part of me is still hoping this is all some elaborate misunderstanding.

He doesn't hesitate.

"If you walk away," he says evenly, "you will be approached again less quietly."

Not might. Not eventually. Will.

I let out a slow breath through my nose, but it doesn't steady me the way I want it to.

"And if I keep walking?" I press, because if we're doing this, I need the full picture. "If I ignore you. Ignore them."

For the first time, his expression shifts—barely. Not irritation. Not anger. Something closer to patience thinning at the edges.

"You are not invisible," he says. "Your cursed energy has already marked you as an anomaly. Untrained manifestations are unstable. They attract attention. From us... and from curses."

The word lands colder than the others.

Curses.

Right.

This isn't just about secret higher-ups and recruitment pitches. It's about things worse than fairytail villians.

My stomach tightens.

"So what," I mutter before I can stop myself, "I'm glowing in the dark now?"

A beat.

"In a manner of speaking," he replies.

That's not funny.

That is deeply not funny.

I drag a hand down my face, staring at the half-eaten fries on my tray like they've personally betrayed me.

Yesterday I was staring at my closet for ten minutes, trying to decide if a bright colour was flattering or embarrassing.

Today I'm apparently an "anomaly."

"This is insane," I murmur.

"No," he says calmly. "It is consistent."

'Consistent with what? Ancient cursed bloodlines? Secret societies? My family losing control?!'

A cold realization slips into place.

This isn't random. They didn't just feel something. They were probably waiting for it.

"You Jujutsu guys knew this would happen," I say quietly.

Not quite a question. His silence is answer enough. My chest tightens.

'Huh, of course.'

Of course my family had history. Of course this wasn't just bad luck and adrenaline. Of course there's a system, a structure, people who categorize and prepare and respond.

And now I'm on their list.

I look at him fully this time.

"If I say yes," I ask, "what does that mean?"

His voice remains steady, but there's something firmer beneath it now.

"It means training. Control. Protection."

'Protection??'

"For me?" I ask.

"For you," he confirms. "And for everyone around you."

That one hits where it hurts.

Because yesterday wasn't controlled. Yesterday could have gone worse.

I glance around the restaurant—at the kid with sticky fingers, at the couple sharing fries, at the bored employee wiping down a table.

Normal people.

Fragile.

If something in me spikes again—

My throat tightens.

He watches me absorb it all, giving me space to reach the conclusion myself. I hate that it's working. I hate that he's right. I lean back slightly, the plush seat no longer comforting.

"So this isn't really a choice," I say softly.

"It is," he replies. "But only one option ends with you in control of your own power."

Silence stretches between us. The ice in my cup has stopped moving. So has my hand.

I inhale slowly.

"...If I agree," I say, my voice steadier now, "I'm not being dragged anywhere today. I go home first. I talk to my mother."

A boundary. A small one, but mine. For the first time, something like approval flickers in his posture.

"That is acceptable," he says.

And just like that, my Saturday is no longer mine.

───── ✧⋅ღ⋅✧ ─────

Chapter 1

Chaper 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

To Live Is A Curse [ 𝐒. 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑]

───── ✧⋅ღ⋅✧ ─────

I don't remember unlocking the front door.

I remember running.

The sound of my own breathing in my ears. The slap of my shoes against pavement. The feeling that if I looked back, he'd be right there.

The front door looms in front of me and I fumble for my keys, fingers clumsy and cold.

My hands are shaking so badly the key misses the lock the first time. Metal scrapes against metal.

Too loud and I flinch.

"Calm down," I whisper to myself, though my voice barely comes out.

The second try isn't much better. The key hits the plate again with a sharp clink before finally sliding in. My fingers feel numb, clumsy — like they don't belong to me.

It takes effort to turn it. The lock clicks. The sound is small. But it feels massive.

Safe.

The hallway light is on.

Soft yellow. Warm. Familiar.

For a second, I just stand there in the doorway, breathing.

The house smells like home — clean laundry, something sweet from the kitchen. My mom must've baked earlier. It's such a normal smell it almost hurts.

The welcome rug by the door. The little ceramic dish for keys beside the door. The faint hum of the refrigerator in the distance.

It's so normal.

Too normal and my chest tightens.

I step inside and shut the door behind me, leaning against it for half a second longer than necessary. My knees feel weak. My wrist still tingles where he grabbed me.

I look down at it.

There's no burn mark. No glow. Just skin. But I can still feel the heat under it. Normal. Completely normal.

Then why does it still feel hot? Not surface-hot. Not like I touched a stove.

It feels deeper. Like the heat started under my skin and pushed outward.

Like it didn't come from outside of me.

My stomach drops.

'O-oh my god.'

'Did I just—'

'No.'

'No, no, no.'

He screamed.

I squeeze my eyes shut and it replays instantly.

The way he let go. The way he stumbled back.

The smell. The pink flames burning his face.

I swallow hard.

'What if that was—'

'What if he's dead?'

The thought hits so hard I actually feel dizzy.

I push off the door abruptly like it burned me.

'No. I didn't see him collapse. I ran before I could see anything.'

'But what if he did after?'

'What if someone finds him?'

'What if there are cameras?'

My breathing picks up again.

'I didn't mean to. I didn't even think. It just happened. He grabbed me!' I silently freak out.

The burning feeling hasn't fully settled yet. It hums faintly in my ribs — like embers that haven't decided whether to die down or flare again.